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Cuthbert praying in the sea 






GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

MORE CHILDREN IN 
THE WOOD STORIES 




BY 


JEANNETTE MARKS 

Author of “Children in the Wood Stories” 


ILLUSTRATED BY 
CLARA M. BURD 


1921 

MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY 

SPRINGFIELD, MASS. 




Copyright, 1921 

By MILTON BRADLEY CO, 
Springfield, Mass. 


/ 




Jill " 5 '21 



©CU614988 


v ty 


To 

My Nephew 

FRANCIS PAGE BACON 
In remembrance of the summer at Fleur de 
Lys when we wrote and read 

GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Thanksgiving Dinner 5 

II The Odd Man 

III The Monster Grendel .... 23 

IV Geoffrey’s Window . . . ; . . 37 

V Dame Williams 44 

VI The Boiling Cauldron 51 

VII Strange Boats 63 

VIII David 70 

IX Mice and Heroes 76 

X Obstinate Jane 83 

XI The Golden Bowl 89 

XII The Dark People 99 

XIII Riddles 108 

XIV A New Suit 115 

XV The Battle of the Ford .... 121 

XVI Games 135 

XVII The Brave Cowherd H 4 

XVIII Dream Ponies 154 

XIX A Savage Joke 163 

XX Bread m 


✓ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXI The Flying Man 184 

XXII The Boy Merlin 19 1 

XXIII A Prize 196 

XXIV The Little Huts 206 

XXV The Gentle Were-wolf 223 

XXVI Bed Time 231 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


CHAPTER I 


THANKSGIVING DINNER 



MI Um! wasn’t that a good Thanks- 


giving dinner!” sighed Douglas, pat- 
ting himself on the stomach. 

“Couldn’t have been better,” agreed little 
Dicky who was always interested in food. 

“Aunt Jan’s turkey was the biggest turkey I 
ever saw!” exclaimed Mary, giving the collie 
Arrow a hug. 

“Had to be,” said studious Paul, “to feed 
all us children!” 

“It was stuffed with chestnuts,” explained 
Alice. 

“The gravy and the sweet potatoes were 
fine!” said Ferris. 

“And the green string beans Aunt Jan 
canned last summer and the pumpkin pie and 


6 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


the mince pie and the cranberry sauce!” Lit- 
tle Janet spoke rapidly getting things very 
much mixed up, her bright face red and ex- 
cited in the dancing light of the big old-fash- 
ioned fireplace. 

“I’d rather skate than eat!” said Alice, who 
was very fond of outdoor sports. 

“Wasn’t it beautiful out there in the star- 
light skating on that smooth ice!” said Belle 
thoughtfully. 

“I’d have liked it better,” said Paul, “if my 
tooth hadn’t ached a little.” 

“I say it was the end of a perfect day!” 
sighed chubby Mary, still breathless from the 
long rapid skating. 

The ringing of their skates had been like 
music; the frosty air not too cold, the sound 
of their happy voices had chimed in with the 
ringing of the skates. Now after their won- 
derful Thanksgiving Day with its bountiful 
dinner and an early evening of skating on the 
pond they were beginning to feel sleepy. Lit- 
tle four year old Eleanor was already asleep, 
her head in Belle’s lap. 

Aunt Jan came into the room with a big 
sandwich tray heaped with sandwiches of all 


THANKSGIVING DINNER 7 

sorts, followed by a servant carrying ten glasses 
and a huge flagon of milk. 

“Happy?” asked Aunt Jan. 

“Oh, Aunt Jan, it was just the best day that 
ever was!” piped Dicky. 

“Penny Whistle had a bully dinner,” said 
Douglas, teasing Dicky by imitating his pip- 
ing voice. 

“Now for our sandwich supper about the 
fire,” said Aunt Jan, “and then to bed!” 

“Couldn’t we have a story before we go to 
bed?” asked Paul, whose tooth ached enough 
so that he did not want to go to bed. 

“Just one, please!” begged Alice politely. 

“Well, yes,” said Aunt Jan, “but we’ll have 
it while we’re eating our picnic supper and it 
must be a short one, for I don’t want little 
children cross as bears to-morrow!” 

“What’s Thanksgiving anyhow?” piped 
Dicky. 

“That’s a good question to ask,” said Aunt 
Jan, as she went around with the sandwiches 
once more and then sat down in a chair by the 
fire. “It used to be a day of Thanksgiving 
for the crops our forefathers gathered, the po- 
tatoes and beans and peas, the corn and pump- 


8 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


kins, the onions and cabbages, oats and wheat, 
the apples and other vegetables and fruits 
gathered in the harvests and which fed our 
ancestors through the long cold northern 
winter.” 

“Then that’s where our pumpkin pies and 
mince pies came from!” said Janet, tasting 
again the delicious pies she had had at Aunt 
Jan’s Thanksgiving table. 

“Yes, our forefathers used to have pumpkin 
pie away back in the early eighteenth century 
but I imagine the mince pie was a custom 
brought from England and continued here!” 

“I wish all their old English customs were 
as good as that!” came from Douglas who had 
a rude way of saying things. 

“We owe most of what is best in our lives 
to our English inheritance,” said Aunt Janet 
quietly. “I often think that inheritance is 
like a Great Palace stored full of precious 
things, — a palace in which there are a thou- 
sand golden doors and windows, doors and 
windows that open in beautiful rooms and on 
gardens and balconies, treasures more beau- 
tiful than anything the world has ever seen 
before.” 


THANKSGIVING DINNER 


9 


“Are the doors and windows really of 
gold?” asked Mary. 

“Not really in any literal sense, neverthe- 
less of gold,” came the quiet answer. 

“Could I go through one of those doors and 
see through one of those windows?” piped 
Dicky. 

“Yes, if you wanted to go, dear,” said Aunt 
Jan. “And at night you would find those 
rooms lighted by magic lamps so bright they 
cast a glow over the whole world. And these 
lamps — these precious treasures that have 
come to us — hang by chains the ends of which 
cannot be seen, just as Pryderi was not able 
to see the ends of the hanging golden chains 
in the palace he entered.” 

“Who was Pryderi, Aunt Jan?” asked Paul. 

“That story is too long to tell to-night, but 
you shall hear it to-morrow, if you wish.” 

“That would be great!” piped Dicky and 
all the children with him except little Eleanor 
who lay fast asleep. 

They were trying to make their sandwiches 
last as long as possible, for they knew that as 
soon as they were eaten, that would be a sig- 
nal for Aunt Jan to send them to bed. 


io GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“It is not only great crops of wheat, corn, 
and potatoes our bodies have to be thankful 
for, but our minds should be very thankful 
for this Great Palace with its beautiful lamp- 
lighted rooms of story and song. Even Alad- 
din’s Lamp, magic as it was, could never bring 
as much beauty and power into human lives as 
these wonderful songs and stories of English 
Literature.” 

“Is that from a book?” asked Janet, who 
did not like books. 

She was getting very sleepy. Her eyes had 
almost closed while she was actually biting 
into a sandwich. But she opened them very 
wide now and stared suspiciously at Aunt 
Jan. 

“Men have written books about this Great 
Palace,” said Aunt Jan, “but the palace itself 
is not a book. It is simply the lives of men 
and women and boys and girls, what they did 
and what they dreamed many, many years 
ago.” 

“Oh,” said Paul, “then it’s just as real as 
whai people might say about us hundreds of 
years from now!” 

“Just as real,” said Aunt Jan, “only it is 


THANKSGIVING DINNER u 


likely that our names will be forgotten and 
some of their names will never be forgotten as 
long as English is spoken. That Great Pal- 
ace is a sort of fairyland ; in it are giants and 
monsters . . 

“I just adore monsters,’’ broke in Dicky 
sleepily, his head nodding nearer and nearer 
his sandwich. 

“In it, too,” continued Aunt Jan, “are great 
warrior heroes like Beowulf and saintly he- 
roes like Cuthbert; in it are noble boys like 
Alfred, poets, princes, lovely ladies, little chil- 
dren, spirited horses . . 

“Aren’t there any ponies?” asked Janet. In 
her half-asleep state she had just caught the 
word horses and that made her think of ponies 
which she loved. 

“Yes, many ponies and many faithful dogs.” 

“If there are dogs there, then I want to go 
to that palace,” said Mary. “I guess Arrow 
would like it.” She patted the big handsome 
collie lying sound asleep beside her. 

“Yes,” said Aunt Jan, watching the chil- 
dren who were growing sleepier and sleepier, 
“and in that Palace is the sound of singing, 
the beat of dancing feet . . .” 


12 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Was there any skating?” asked Alice, jerk- 
ing up her nodding head. 

“Lots of skating,” answered Aunt Jan, “and 
the laughter of running Water, and cries of 
gladness and cries of sorrow, birds and jolly 
winds and flowers and fruits . . 

“It sounds like a Thanksgiving dinner,” 
whispered Mary, cuddling her head on Ar- 
row’s side. 

“Some of the names are Beowulf and the 
monster Grendel . . 

“I know about Grendel,” said Paul, trying 
to separate a dream he had been having of a 
very solemn turkey dripping gravy and danc- 
ing on skates and some green string beans that 
were tying a string about his tooth, from what 
he had somehow just heard Aunt Jan say. 

“There are many other names there; a little 
radiant-browed Welsh boy called Taliesin ; the 
warriors and friends, Cuchulain and Ferdi- 
ad; Caedmon the cowherd, even some seals 
who loved St. Cuthbert; the young Prince 
Alfred; Havelock the son of a king who lived 
with a common fisherman; red and white 
dragons, a werewolf, all the marvels of Geof- 
frey of Monmouth . . .” 


THANKSGIVING DINNER 13 

“Geoffrey, who’s Geof . . began Paul. 

But his head nodded and fell over before he 
could finish the sentence. 

Aunt Jan paused, smiled and looked about 
her. There lay nine happy children, big and 
little, sound asleep, dreaming no doubt of 
Thanksgiving dinners, golden windows and 
doors and skating. 

“Children, it’s time for bed.” 

Not a voice answered. There they lay, 
sound asleep, Dicky making some funny little 
bubbles with his lips, Mary whispering some- 
thing in her sleep, Paul’s hand twitching as 
if the pain of his tooth hurt him. 

Aunt Jan went to the mantelpiece where in 
a row stood twelve old-fashioned brass can- 
dlesticks with their broad saucers and their 
snuffers. It was where those old candlesticks 
had stood since time was. It suited Aunt Jan 
that they should stand there still. 

Nine of these candles she lighted and as 
each little golden wick flame caught, she spoke 
a name: Paul, Douglas, Belle, Alice, Mary, 
Ferris, Dicky, Janet, Eleanor. In lighting 
Eleanor’s candle, she accidentally knocked off 
the mantelpiece a piece of quartz rock one of 


14 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


the boys had brought in. It made a loud bang 
on the bare floor. 

Then with the first candle she went back to 
wake Paul. 


CHAPTER II 


THE ODD MAN 

P AUL could not imagine how the autumn 
had so suddenly changed to spring or 
why he was standing by an odd beautiful old 
window beside an odd quiet man who was 
writing in a great book. The sun was setting, 
the wind blowing gently, the air was as sweet- 
smelling as if it rose from fields of lilies, and 
it was the springtime of the world some two 
thousand years ago. 

He did not have to pinch himself to make 
it all seem real. It must be real enough, for 
here beside him stood Mary, and there below 
the odd window in a quaint little street stood 
the children: Eleanor, Janet, and Paul, Fer- 
ris and Belle and Douglas, little Dicky and 
Alice. They looked very much like them- 
selves and yet different, with a strange sort of 
green light on them. He looked at his own 
hand. Yes, that was somewhat green, too. 
15 


i6 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


Paul’s eyes stared. Yes, it was the children. 
Their costumes, and his, too, were amazing, 
little short smocks, bare legs, sandals, and such 
queer caps for the boys and long gowns and 
wimples for the girls. 

“Truly, my son,” said the Odd Man, “thy 
look is surprised.” 

Paul continued to stare. He seemed to be 
tongue-tied. 

“How be that ye came here?” continued the 
Odd Man kindly. “And who are ye?” 

“We can’t just remember,” Paul heard 
Mary say, and her voice sounded at a great 
distance off. 

“Are these the Green Children come 
again?” said the Odd Man, as if talking to 
himself. 

“Please, sir,” said Paul, “who are the Green 
Children?” 

Master Geoffrey left that question unan- 
swered and stared, too. 

“Please, sir, who are you?” asked Mary. 

“I, forsooth, am, — well — plain Geoffrey and 
this is Geoffrey’s Window in Monmouth.” 

“Oh,” said Paul, “and what shall we call 
you?” 



“It must be real enough, for beside him stood Mary” 







1 1 ; 









: 


THE ODD MAN 


i7 

“Call me Master Geoffrey, ’tis a good 
enough title for any pinch of dust.” 

“Yes, Master Geoffrey,” Paul heard Mary 
say. 

“And who are those children yonder?” he 
asked, putting down a big goose quill pen with 
which he wrote and pointing to Douglas and 
the others who stood restlessly on the quaint 
street watching every thing that passed. . . . 
Truly, Geoffrey might play tricks with Time 
in his tales but here was a trick Time had 
played on him. 

“Those are my brothers and sisters,” an- 
swered Paul rubbing his head, “but I’m not 
sure we are here and they look so green like 
leaves or grass and I don’t know how we got 
here. We were spending Thanksgiving with 
Aunt Jan and . . .” 

And what? thought Paul. Just what had 
happened? 

“And who may Aunt Jan be?” asked the 
strange man. 

“Aunt Jan!” exclaimed Mary, surprised 
that every one did not know who Aunt Jan 
was. “Why she’s Aunt Jan and she’s our 
aunt and she writes books and things.” 


1 8 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“Truth, I see, a chronicler like unto my- 
self,” said Geoffrey nodding his head up and 
down like one of those Chinese mandarin fig- 
ures which stood on Aunt Jan’s mantelpiece. 

“What time is it?” asked Paul. 

“ ’Tis evening,” said Geoffrey, looking out 
the little casement window. 

“No,” said Paul, “I mean is it the same 
year?” 

“What year, my son?” 

“The present, you know, the year 1920.” 

“1920, my son? What fable is this! This 
is the twelfth century in which we live.” 

To the studious Paul it seemed that he had 
heard Geoffrey of Monmouth’s name before. 
Yes, he had it: Shakespeare had taken the 
material of his play King Lear in part from 
the Chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth! 

“Do you know Shakespeare?” asked Paul, 
although he knew Shakespeare died in 1616. 
It was the only thing he could think of to ask. 

The Odd Man shook his head. “Shake- 
speare? Nay, of such a name have I never 
heard.” 

“I do,” said Mary. 

“What are you doing?” asked Paul. 


THE ODD MAN 


i9 

“Writing in my Chronicles whereof I know 
more than I set down on these pages.” 

“What do you set down?” asked Paul, feel- 
ing somewhat rude to ask so many questions. 

“Fables, chiefly Welsh fables. But I know 
many others not Welsh.” 

Paul saw Geoffrey’s keen, humorous eyes 
studying him and knew that the Chronicler 
was wondering whose boy he was and whose 
those children were outside. 

“Are you writing in Welsh?” asked Mary. 

“No, in Latin.” 

“I have just finished with my Latin Gram- 
mar and begun Caesar,” said Paul. 

“So old and but finished with thy Gram- 
mar!” exclaimed Geoffrey. “Ah, I was not 
much more than out of my mother’s arms be- 
fore I was well into Latin Grammar.” 

Although Paul was younger than Douglas, 
he was ahead of him in his studies. But now 
instead of feeling proud, he felt ashamed, and 
thought the subject of conversation needed a 
slight change. 

He moved about uncomfortably. 

“Can you tell any stories in English?” he 

asked. 


20 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Many, though I have writ none in Eng- 
lish.” 

“Aunt Jan tells stories,” said Mary. 

“Call in thy brothers and sisters and I will 
tell thee an English tale in English. It shall 
not be said that Geoffrey of Monmouth was 
outdone by any she-chronicler. I will tell 
thee the oldest story there is in English, a story 
of a monster and a dragon and a great hero 
Beowulf, and I will tell it thee in English.” 

Paul called to the children and they came 
trooping up the narrow carved stairway to 
the quaint room above, taking Geoffrey’s win- 
dow and the little town of Monmouth as natur- 
ally as if they had lived there all their lives. 
It was only that they did look so surprisingly 
greenish, — as if at any moment they might 
turn into little trees walking. 

Dicky was wild with joy when he heard 
v that it was to be a story about a monster and a 
. dragon and a hero, for he loved them all. 

“It’s a golden window and door! A golden 
window and door!” Paul heard him pipe in 
. his shrill voice. 

“A what?” said the Odd Man looking at the 
children with kind puzzled eyes. 


THE ODD MAN 


21 


“If you please, sir,” answered Alice very 
politely, “Dicky means it is in the Palace.” 

That did not make matters any better for the 
Odd Man, but he said politely, “My palace 
is not here.” 

That set them to wondering whether he 
really had a palace. 

“Come, little ones, shall we begin?” 

“Yes, yes,” they cried, gathering about the 
spacious plain old fireplace. 

“Here in the story of Beowulf is an old and 
rude story but it is very precious, my children. 
Sometimes the pictures are beautiful. Some- 
times they are cruel and without pity. Only 
the Scop, the man who sang songs and told 
stories in those days so many years ago on the 
edge of that wild north sea, knows how piti- 
less life was then.” 

“Please, sir,” said Mary who hated school 
books, “is this to be a book?” 

“No, my child, this story has Geoffrey 
never written nor will he ever. . . . That 
Scop who played the harp and who sang stories 
knew how to bind all men and all beasts with 
his song, — even better than I, Geoffrey of 
Monmouth. Not alone the fish and worms 


22 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


forgot their tasks, but the cattle stopped graz- 
ing, and, when he passed, men and children 
paused to listen. This Scop was on his way to 
the Great Hall to have a sight of the hero, 
Beowulf. Now, listen well!” 


CHAPTER III 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 
S they sat about the spacious, plain fire- 



xjL place, Paul felt as if his eyes blinked 
first on Aunt Jan’s fireplace, then on that 
which he had never seen before. What made 
him wink and blink so hard? He thought 
he must be dreaming but he did not pinch 
himself. Paul looked at his hand; it was not 
green any longer. 

“My children, I have a great life, small man 
though I be,” came the voice of Master Geof- 
frey. “The great life is the life I live in my 
stories, for there will always be men to retell 
these stories after me. Now listen well, my 
children, to the greatest of all English stories: 
When our English ancestors came to Eng- 
land they brought this story with them. 
Mayhaps ’twas then in the form of short 
poems. And these, it may be, a Christian 
Northumbrian poet in the eighth century, or 


24 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


thereabouts, did weave together. But, I will 
tell thee the brave strong tale as Geoffrey 
heard it when a little lad. 

“Behind the Scop I told ye of, he who 
bound all men and beasts by his song, lay the 
sea and the coast guard pacing up and down. 
Before him, landward, rose a long, high- 
roofed hall. It had gable ends, from which 
towered up huge stag horns. And the roof 
shone only less brightly than the sun, for it was 
covered with metal.” 

“Please, sir,” said Mary, “was it the city 
hall?” 

“The what, little one?” 

“City hall, sir, please.” 

“Forsooth of that have I never heard. It 
was the hall of Hrothgar the old king whose 
subjects the monster Grendel was tearing to 
pieces and devouring.” 

“Pooh,” exclaimed Douglas, “no old mon- 
ster could tear me to pieces!” 

“Douglas, be still. Don’t be so rude!” said 
Belle. 

“Wouldst hear my story, children?” asked 
Geoffrey. 

“Yes, Yes,” came in a chorus. 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 25 

“Well, my children, about the Great Hall 
towards which the Scop was traveling, was a 
village made up of tiny houses, each in its 
own patch of tilled ground and apple trees, 
and with fields in which sheep and oxen and 
horses were pastured. Narrow paths wound 
in and out everywhere. In front of the Hall 
was a broad meadow across which the King 
and Queen and their lords and ladies were 
wont to walk. 

“There was much going on that day in Heo- 
rot. Flocks of children played about the 
pretty paths. Mothers and aunts and older 
sisters sat spinning in the open doorways. Be- 
yond the wide meadow young men and boys 
were leading or riding spirited horses up 
and down to exercise them. 

“And all, men, women and children alike, 
were talking about Beowulf, who had come to 
kill the monster, Grendel, and free the people 
of Heorot.” 

Janet looked a little as if she were going to 
cry until Ferris gave her a nudge and whis- 
pered that this all happened long ago. 

“That depends,” said Alice, a little tear- 
fully, “on just when we’re living. If we’re 


26 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


living now, it doesn’t matter but if we’re liv- 
ing long ago, the monster might come get 
us.” 

“Have no fear, little one,” said Geoffrey, 
“but listen well. This hero Beowulf had not 
much more than entered the Hall when the 
Scop, or singer, entered too. In those days 
singers were welcome everywhere. They saw 
Beowulf stride mightily across the many-col- 
ored floor of Heorot and go up to the old 
King. And they heard his voice which 
sounded like the rumble of a heavy sea on 
their rock-bound coast. 

“‘Hrothgarl’ he said to the old King, 
‘across the sea’s way have I come to help 
thee.’ 

“ ‘Of thee, Beowulf, have we need,’ replied 
the old King in tears, ‘for Heorot has suffered 
much from this monster.’ 

“ ‘I will deliver thee, Hrothgar,’ said Beo- 
wulf in his great voice, ‘thee and all who 
dwell in Heorot.’ 

“ ‘Steep and stony are the sea cliffs, joyless 
our woods and wolf-haunted, robbed is our 
Heorot, for to Grendel can no man do aught,’ 
answered the King. ‘He breaks the bones of 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 27 

my people. And those of my people he can- 
not eat in Heorot he drags away onto the moor 
and devours alive.’ 

“And the old, bald-headed King, seated on 
his high seat in the Hall between his pretty 
daughter and his tired queen, sighed as he 
thought of the on-coming night. Yet, now 
that Beowulf had come, he hoped.” 

“Did he hope,” piped Dicky, the cold shiv- 
ers going up and down his back, “that the hero 
Beowulf would kill the monster?” 

“Yes, little master, that was it, else would 
the monster have devoured not only his sub- 
jects but also the old King himself and the 
queen and the pretty daughter. But now 
there was hope, together they gathered about 
the banquet. Beowulf sat among the sons of 
the old King. The walls inside were as bright 
as the roof and gold-gilded, and the great fires 
from which smoke poured out through open- 
ings in the roof were cheerful and warm. 

“Then the Scop was called up, and the harp 
was placed for him. Clear rose the song from 
the Scop’s lips and all the company was still. 
For awhile they forgot the monster which, 
even now with the falling dusk, was striding 


28 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


up from the sea, perhaps by the same path 
Beowulf and Widsith and the Scop had 
come.” 

Ferris had got very near Paul. He was 
frightened. He could almost have cried and 
he wanted his Aunt Jan. 

“Already it had grown dark under heaven 
and darker in the Hall,” went on the deep, 
pleasant voice, “and the place was filled with 
shadowy shapes. 

“And now came Grendel stalking from the 
cloudy cliffs towards the Gold Hall. It 
would have been hard for four men to have 
carried his huge head, so big it was. The 
nails of his hands were like iron, and large 
as the monstrous claws of a wild beast. And 
since there was a spell upon him, no sword or 
spear could harm him. 

“While others slept, Beowulf lay awake, 
ready with his naked hands to fight Grendel.” 

“Oh cricky,” said Douglas, looking at his 
own big hands, “didn’t he have even a rifle?” 

“A what?” asked Master Geoffrey. 

“You know, something to shoot with.” 

“Ah, a fusil? No, nothing but his hands 
did he fight with this night. Suddenly the 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 29 

monster smote the door of Heorot and it 
cracked asunder. In he strode, flame in his 
eyes, and before Beowulf could spring upon 
him or any one awake, he snatched a sleeping 
warrior and tore him to pieces.” 

“Oh,” said chubby Mary, her eyes as big 
as saucers, “my dog Arrow got hold of an- 
other dog and tried to do that, and I cried 
and Uncle came and whipped them both. It 
must be much much worse seeing two human 
beings fight like that, even if one was a hero!” 

“They weren’t both human,” explained 
Paul. “One was a monster, wasn’t he, Master 
Geoffrey?” 

“Indeed yes, and a terrible monster. And 
Beowulf, who had the strength of thirty men 
in his body, gripped Grendel the monster, 
and the dreadful battle and noise began. The 
benches were overturned, the walls cracked, 
the fires were scattered, and dust rose in clouds 
from the many-colored floor as Beowulf wres- 
tled with Grendel. 

“The Scop had seized his harp and was 
playing a great battle-song, but music has no 
power over such evil as Grendel’s. Beowulf 
himself, who was struggling to break the 


30 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


bone-house of the monster, in the din of the 
mighty battle, did not hear it either. And 
the song was lost in the noise and dust which 
rose together in Heorot. 

“Even the warriors, who struck Grendel 
with their swords could not help Beowulf, 
for neither sword nor spear could injure the 
monster. Only the might of the hero, him- 
self, could do aught.” 

“What I want to know,” growled Douglas, 
“is why if the warriors had swords, Beowulf 
didn’t borrow one?” 

“That can I not tell thee. But at last, with 
the strength of thirty men, Beowulf gripped 
the monster. And Grendel, with rent sinews 
and bleeding body, fled away to the ocean cave 
where he had lived. And there in the cave, 
with the sea blood-stained and boiling above 
him, he died, outlawed for evil.” 

“Jiminy, I’m glad he got him I” piped 
Dicky. 

“Wouldn’t it have been just awful,” sighed 
Mary, “if he hadn’t, for then he would have 
eaten them all in time!” 

“Yea, little one, the monster would have 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 31 

devoured them all in time, — even unto the 
last one.” 

They were silent, thinking of what Mas- 
ter Geoffrey had told them and listening to 
the coming and going of the passing feet on 
the cobbles outside. Even Douglas was still 
and for once did not brag of what he would 
have done, for he knew very well that big as 
his hands were they were not strong enough 
to tear off the claw of such a monster. 

At last Belle who had a turn for reflection 
broke the stillness. “And then, sir, I suppose 
they all lived happily ever afterwards?” 

“Nay, little mistress, in life ’tis not often 
thus, and they say that this tale which our an- 
cestors brought from the northern coast did 
not end happily. Beowulf, the hero, went 
back to his own land and lived there as a king, 
great and brave. But a huge old dragon who 
was guarding a treasure was robbed. So 
angry was the dragon that he left his heap of 
treasure and came down upon the land of 
King Beowulf, burning it and terrifying the 
people. Then Beowulf, who by this time had 
become an old man, felt that he must fight 


32 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


to save his people. He went out and slew 
the dragon, but was himself scorched to death 
by the fiery breath of the dragon.” 

“And he really died!” said little Dicky, try- 
ing to sniff back some tears. 

“Course he did, you little goose!” answered 
Douglas. 

“But, my children,” Paul heard Master 
Geoffrey say, “we should be thankful that be- 
hind us we have ancestors who, like the hero 
Beowulf, are brave.” 

“That’s what Aunt Jan says,” said Ferris. 

“Many and brave are the heroes to which 
the English people have fallen heir. There 
is the Song of Roland which William the 
Conqueror brought over when he«came to con- 
quer England.” 

“That,” said Ferris proudly, “was in the 
year 1066, — almost a thousand years ago.” 

“What is that?” exclaimed Master Geof- 
frey, startled. “Thou dost mean a hundred 
years instead of a thousand. Before the sol- 
diers of that William, the minstrel, Taillefer, 
rode singing of Charlemagne, and of Roland, 
and of Oliver, and the vassals who fell at 
Roncevaux.” 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 33 

“And were they killed ?” asked Mary. 

“Aye, little one, they died fighting. Beo- 
wulf was the battle song of the Anglo-Saxons, 
The Song of Roland that of the Normans. 
Melancholy was the poem of Beowulf . White 
and clear, stirring and flashing in the sun- 
shine was the Song of Roland, even as Ro- 
land’s beloved sword Durendal.” 

Paul saw Master Geoffrey get up, go to the 
dusky window and look out. 

“Where is thy Aunt Jan?” he asked. “Is 
she below in the street waiting for thee?” 

The children looked rather frightened. 
Paul answered that they did not know where 
Aunt Jan was or how they themselves had got 
here. Paul saw Master Geoffrey staring at 
him with big round eyes and he felt as if his 
own eyes must be as large as those looking at 
him. Below in the streets they could hear 
doors closing as if people were going to bed 
and voices calling good-night to and fro and 
some one farther away chanting strange words 
of which Paul could hear distinctly: 

“Dark is the land 

Where they dwell: windy nesses, and holds of the wolf: 


34 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


The wild path of the fen where the stream of the wood 
Through the fog of the sea-cliffs falls downward in flood.” 

He felt as if he were hearing something he 
had learned in school. But then he heard the 
voice of Master Geoffrey speaking as if he 
were puzzled, and Paul knew he was some- 
how very far away from school and every- 
thing he had ever known. 

“Well then, my children, who brought thee 
here if not this she-chronicler Aunt Jan of 
whom ye speak?” 

Eleanor, as usual, was sound asleep already. 
But Belle, in whose lap the little sister’s head 
lay, looked much troubled. Ferris who was 
given to crying for his Auntie, wiped away 
some tears with the back of his hand. 

“Nobody brought us here, Master Geof- 
rey,” said Paul, “and we do not know how we 
got here.” 

“Time, another trick of time,” muttered 
Geoffrey. “Green were those children from 
the wool pits and at every point of their body. 
But it was harvest time and this is spring.” 

The children did not in the least understand 


THE MONSTER GRENDEL 35 

what he was talking about. But that made 
them all the more troubled. 

A bell rang, a sweet, quiet bell. A few 
doors were hastily banged and the streets were 
silent. 

“ ’Tis the curfew and now must ye stay with 
old Geoffrey this night, for no children may 
go upon the streets after curfew rings. Here 
will ye lie safe and snug till the morrow. 
Then if no one comes to fetch thee, I know an 
old dame in the town of Monmouth will give 
thee excellent care.” 

“Please, sir,” whimpered Dicky, “I’m 
hungry I” 

“Ah, ah,” said Geoffrey, “forgive an old 
man for not thinking of thy young stomachs.” 

And he brought out a huge loaf of bread, 
a foot and a half long and very wide and 
thick, and with a beautiful golden brown 
crust. From this, the bread held against him- 
self, he sawed thick pieces. Out came a 
reddish colored cheese from which he cut thin 
slices, and a huge flagon from which he 
poured big cups of milk. 

And when the children had eaten their 


36 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


bread and milk and cheese, they fell asleep 
around the fireplace. The last thing Paul 
remembered was wondering why the firelight 
seemed to wink at him and turn from gold to 
green, and hearing Master Geoffrey, over by 
the dark window, slowly repeating what 
seemed to be prayers in Latin. 


CHAPTER IV 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

W HEN Paul woke up the next morning, 
it did not take him long to find out 
where they were. 

He heard Mary say, “Oh, isn’t that a funny 
little street?” 

Over by the window stood Mary and Dicky, 
Ferris and Alice and Janet. Master Geoffrey 
and Douglas were no where to be seen, but 
Belle was still by the fireplace, Eleanor asleep 
in her lap. Yes, here they were, waking up 
on it, too, so it must be real. 

He got up, rubbed his eyes, and went over 
to the standing desk on which the Chronicler 
had been writing the evening before. Yes, 
there lay the big book. It was beautifully 
colored with great letters. 

And then he crossed to the window and 
looked down upon the streets. He couldn’t 
help wandering what Aunt Jan would think 

67 


38 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


about these streets. You looked around one 
corner and there was a quaint old bridge. 
And there around another corner was a clocks 
and down that way was a beautiful building 
that looked half church and half school with 
the men still working on it, and winding in 
and out everywhere was a little river about a 
fourth as big as the Connecticut River or a 
tenth as big as the Hudson. 

“Paul, what’s that river?” piped little 
Dicky. 

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his broad 
forehead with one slender hand. 

“I do,” said Mary, “ ’cause I asked. Mas- 
ter Geoffrey says that’s the River Wye and 
this is Monmouth, and down the river there 
by Tintern is a cloister and lots and lots of 
monks live there.” 

“Gee,” said Ferris, “how I’d like a good 
swim!” 

“I don’t care anything about any old Ab- 
beys,” Alice exclaimed impatiently, “but I do 
want my breakfast!” 

“See that man down there fishing!” said 
Dicky. 

“I want to see a fiss!” cried little Eleanor, 


GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 


39 

who had waked up and run over to Geoffrey’s 
window. 

“Where has Master Geoffrey gone?” asked 
Belle. 

“Gone to find us a place to have our break- 
fast and some one to take care of us,” said 
Mary. 

“There he comes now! Where’s Doug- 
las?” 

“Ah, my hungry little ones, Dame Williams 
has breakfast cooking for thee, a fat salmon 
fresh from the River Wye, a vast loaf of 
bread, good golden milk as rich as meadow 
grass can make it, and golden honey made 
from apple blossoms. If ye do not eat, I shall 
think ye are really the Green Children.” 

“What makes him think we wouldn’t eat?” 
whispered Dicky to Alice. 

“It’s those Green Children he’s always mut- 
tering about.” 

“Come, make haste!” 

The children did not need the urging. 

“I just love honey!” Dicky whispered to 
Alice. 

“Ssh,” said Alice, “it isn’t polite to talk too 
much about food !” 


40 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“I didn’t,” said Dicky. 

They trooped down the stairs, took a look 
up at the quaint window, realized that Geof- 
frey’s study was part of some sort of a larger 
building near a church and danced along be- 
side his quick steps through the rough quaint 
streets where all saluted Master Geoffrey re- 
spectfully, some taking off their odd Mon- 
mouth caps, some curtseying, some drawing 
aside as he passed with his troop of children. 

“He must be somebody very grand,” said 
Belle to Mary. 

“He said he was just plain Master Geof- 
frey,” answered Mary, “but his eyes twinkled 
when he said it. I saw them.” 

“My children,” said Master Geoffrey, “I 
know not why ye are here.” 

“Please, sir,” Paul heard Mary say, “we 
don’t know how we got here. We didn’t 
mean to come!” 

“Well, indeed, since ye are here, to care for 
thee I count as part of the adventure has never 
been absent from Geoffrey’s life. Dame 
Williams will give thee hearty welcome to 
Monmouth and food a-plenty to eat.” 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


4i 


“I’m hungry,” lisped little Eleanor who sel- 
dom had more than one idea at a time. “I 
want some fiss, I do!” 

“Fish shalt thou have,” said Geoffrey who 
held her tiny, soft, warm hand, “and much 
else.” 

“Please, sir,” said Alice, “this is not like 
any town I have ever seen. Where is Mon- 
mouth?” 

“ ’Tis on the borderland of Wales and 
beautiful is that river which runs to the 
sea.” 

“Is the ocean out there?” cried Ferris. 

“Yea, yonder, that way!” 

“And can we go fishing down the river 
some day?” asked Dicky. 

“Yea, some day by boat will I take thee to 
Chepstow and the castle and then shall ye 
watch the taking of salmon.” 

“Goody! Goody!” cried Ferris. 

“Is a castle like a palace?” asked Belle. 

“Aye, somewhat.” 

“Oh, then it will be full of golden doors and 
windows.” 

“Nay, I have seen none such.” 

“There’s a great big hill!” exclaimed Mary. 


42 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Of hills are there many and some terribly 
high in this valley.” 

“And can we climb a hill, a real moun- 
tain?” asked Alice. 

“Nay, my child, they are high and full of 
terrors,” said Geoffrey with horror. 

“Oh, I think it’s such fun, all the things 
we’re going to do!” Paul heard Mary ex- 
claim. 

“But the stories, sir?” asked Paul. 

“Yea, for tales shalt thou not want so long 
as Geoffrey can turn a fable,” his eyes twin- 
kled, “for I am apt to see as many tales shin- 
ing and gleaming as there are scales on a fish’s 
back.” 

“Oh, see that high wall!” said Paul. 

“Yea, that is the town’s wall of defence.’* 

Over beyond the wall of defence they could 
see little groups of round buildings with only 
a door and with high conical thatched roofs. 
Inside the wall there were a few of these 
strange-looking buildings. But most of the 
cottages were rectangular. 

“We are close to the gate near which Dame 
Williams has her cottage.” 

“Is that her cottage?” 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


43 


Paul was looking at a little white plastered 
cottage thatched with fresh straw. Very low, 
very snug, very neat, very sweet this little 
house looked, — something like a very big 
doll’s house and almost as square, only prettier 
than any doll’s house ever made. Bright 
flowers grew about it and a big fuchsia bush 
with large waxy purple-red blossoms almost 
hid the deep little window. On one side of 
the doorstep sat a beautiful golden collie like 
Arrow; on the other side of the doorstep sat 
Douglas eating a piece of bread as large and 
thick as his two hands and which was all cov- 
ered over with honey. 

“Oh,” shouted Dicky on seeing Douglas, 
“we’re going fishing 1” 

“And we’re going in a boat!” added Mary. 
“And to see a castle!” exclaimed Belle. 
“And have more stories,” said Paul, think- 
ing that it was all too good to be true. 


CHAPTER V 


DAME WILLIAMS 

W HAT a day that was! First the de- 
licious bread and honey, milk and 
salmon. Children had never tasted any better 
breakfast in a hungry world where many little 
ones not so fortunate as Paul and his brothers 
and sisters have not enough to eat. 

And then Dame Williams with her funny 
Monmouth cap upon her head, her quaint 
gown, her queer shoes! And such an odd cot- 
tage made of thick red sandstone and daubed 
all over with clay and neatly whitewashed and 
thatched! In some places the walls of the lit- 
tle cottage were fully two feet and a half thick. 
Such deep windows and such odd window 
glass made of pigs’ bladders and letting in a 
sort of milky light to the dim little cottage! 
And the children were sure such strange beds 
were never seen before, for they were cup- 
boards set into the wall. And above the fire- 


44 


DAME WILLIAMS 


45 


place was a sort of stretched hammock woven 
of cord. That was supposed to be the most 
comfortable bed in the house because, being 
over the fireplace, it was the warmest. 

It took Dame Williams most of the day to 
get over the surprise of receiving so distin- 
guished a guest as “Master Geoffrey” who 
wasn’t plain Master Geoffrey at all but a 
great dignitary whose lightest wish from Mon- 
mouth north to Hereford and from Mon- 
mouth south to Chepstow must be obeyed. 
She went around muttering to herself as she 
cleaned and cooked, “His Lordship is a saint, 
a saint.” 

Sturdy Mary stared at the kindly old 
woman. “Please ma’am, is Master Geoffrey 
the Lord?” 

Dame Williams was very much puzzled. 

“The lord! Bless us, what wickedness!” 
exclaimed the old woman. 

“Oh,” said Mary apologetically, “I thought 
you said something about lordship.” 

“Indeed yes, Miss, so I did, for he is des- 
tined to be no less. And a saint he is for 
caring for all ye little ones!” 

“Oh,” said Mary, “are masters lords?” 


46 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Pray,” said Dame Williams reaching up 
for a flitch of bacon that hung from the ceil- 
ing, for she was quietly curious about them, 
“where dost thou come from?” 

Mary and Alice and Belle were helping the 
old woman get the dinner over an open fire. 
Little Eleanor was taking her morning nap 
for all the world as if she were in her own 
home. Janet and the boys were out in the 
garden playing. 

“You see,” said Alice politely, “yesterday 
we were at Aunt Tan’s and now to-dav we’re 
here.” 

“Night before last, I guess it was,” said 
Belle, “and we don’t know how we got here.” 

“Please,” asked Mary, “haven’t you any 
stoves?” 

“Stoves,” said Dame Williams, “pray what 
may that be! Is it something to eat?” 

Mary began to giggle at the idea of eating 
a stove and Belle had to try to explain. But 
it was useless. The old woman had never 
heard of such a thing as a stove. All she 
knew how to cook upon was an open fireplace. 

“Shall I get the dinner plates?” asked 
Alice. 


DAME WILLIAMS 


47 

Dame Williams stared. “Pray what may; 
those be?” 

“Dishes to eat upon,” answered Alice. 

“Of such have I never heard,” said the old 
woman, “in Monmouth we eat upon bread. 
In the little huts some eat upon wooden plat- 
ters. But ’twas the old custom and a dirty 
way.” 

And true enough. She began to cut huge 
slices of bread on which they were to eat and 
on which their bacon was placed. 

“For all the world,” said Belle, “as if we 
were having a very thick picnic!” 

“Where shall I find the knives and forks?” 
asked Mary. 

“Forks? Pray what may they be?” 

And of knives she used only one with which 
she had cut the bacon and with which she was 
now slicing the bread. 

It was a merry dinner party down to which 
they sat and a merry afternoon they spent 
playing on the green among the beehives and 
the apple trees and the flowers and the cats 
and dogs, pigs, cows and hens. Then came a 
grave young man, sent, he said, to make in- 
quiry at Dame Williams’s how the children 


jf8 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

had fared and to fetch them for an hour to 
Geoffrey’s study to hear the story his — 
The young man stopped there, for he had been 
about to say his Lordship and he had been 
ordered to say “Master Geoffrey” before the 
children. 

Little Eleanor they left behind with Dame 
Williams. Paul saw her standing there, her 
tiny hand clasped fast in the old woman’s. 
And he could hear her calling after them in 
that cheerful little voice of hers, “Have a good 
time ! Have a good time !” 

When they reached, the study and looked 
up at the open windows, there stood Geoffrey 
at his high desk writing busily. But when 
they entered his study, Paul noticed that he 
laid down his big quill pen eagerly as if he 
were glad to see them and weary of his work! 

“Ah, little ones,” he said, “so ye are not 
vanished as in a dream!” 

“It is all so strange, sir,” said Paul respect- 
fully, “that it seems like a dream.” 

“Has Dame Williams fed thee well?” 

Paul had seen the shining gold piece he had 
slipped into the old woman’s hand to pay her 
for hef trouble. 


DAME WILLIAMS 


49 


“Please, Master Geoffrey,” piped Dicky, 
“we had honey and milk and bread, and fish, 
and bacon.” 

“Aye, well, that doth not sound like the 
Green Children. They refused food and 
sought only in the pods of some beans!” 

“I think those Green Children,” Paul heard 
Belle whisper to Alice, “are the queerest 
things I ever heard of.” 

“Who in the world do you suppose they 
are?” answered Alice. 

“And now,” went on Master Geoffrey, 
“woulds’t thou have old Geoffrey tell thee a 
story with which to feed thy young minds?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” came in a chorus. 

“Then sit thee down quietly about the fire, 
and listen well!” 

Master Geoffrey pulled forward an old, 
high-backed carved chair and sat in that at 
one side of the fire, his eyes resting dreamily 
upon the open windows, his hands folded 
quietly in his lap over the rough black serge 
gown. 

“I will tell thee a story from the Mabinog- 
ion. Lest ye know not Welsh, ye should know 
that word means Tales for the Little Ones. 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


50 

Beautiful and strange are they. I know a 
Welshman who dwells not far from here and 
who is bringing these stories together and set- 
ting them down in a great book that all chil- 
dren may read.” 

“Please, sir, are they stories about mon- 
sters,” asked Dicky, “like the Grendel story?” 

“Like that are they not, for the Welsh and 
not the Saxons did make them. Some mon- 
sters have they but they are different.” 

“Have they fairies?” asked Janet, who 
loved fairies. 

“Yes, of a sort. But now listen well, for 
dear are these tales to me and out of them 
groweth the story of King Arthur, the great- 
est hero the earth has ever known.” 

“Greater than Beowulf?” growled Douglas, 
who all day long had been pretending he was 
Beowulf. 

“Mayhaps not greater yet more beautiful, 
my son. Now listen well: 


CHAPTER VI 


THE BOILING CAULDRON 

6< T ONG ago at the beginning of King 
Arthur’s time and the famous Round 
Table, there lived a man whose name was 
Tegid Voel. His wife was called Caridwen. 
And there was born to them a son Avagddu, 
who was the ugliest boy in all the world.” 

“I wonder,” whispered Belle to Mary, 
“whether he could have looked any uglier than 
Doug does this minute!” 

“When Caridwen looked at Avagddu, and 
knew beyond any doubt that he was the ugliest 
boy in all the world,” continued Master Geof- 
frey, “she was much troubled. Therefore she 
decided to boil a cauldron of Inspiration and 
Science for her son, so that Avagddu might 
hold an honorable position because of his 
knowledge.” 

“Please, sir,” said Alice, “that’s an awful 
big word. What does it mean?” 

“Inspiration, my child? It means drawing 
51 


52 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


in a greater breath so that we know the truth 
and can teach it. Caridwen filled the caul- 
dron and began to boil it. All knew that it 
must not cease boiling for one year and a day, 
that is, until three drops of inspiration had 
been distilled from it. Gwion Bach she put 
to stirring the cauldron, and Morda, a blind 
man, was to keep the cauldron boiling day 
and night for the whole year. And every day 
Caridwen gathered charm-bearing herbs and 
put them in to boil.” 

“Was the cauldron like Dame Williams’s?” 
asked Ferris. 

“Yes, very like. It was one day towards the 
close of the year that three drops of liquid in 
the cauldron flew out upon the finger of 
Gwion Bach, who was stirring the liquid.” 

“Oo!” sighed Mary. “I don’t like to be 
burned. Dame Williams’s bacon spattered 
and burned me.” 

“Did it, little one? Well, these drops 
burned Gwion Bach and he put his finger in 
his mouth. Because of the magic of those 
drops he knew all that was going to happen. 
And he was afraid of the wiles of Caridwen, 
and in fear he ran away.” 


THE BOILING CAULDRON 53 

“Was he a coward?” asked Ferris, who was 
always afraid in the dark that something 
would catch his heels. 

“Nay, he was no coward. He did right to 
fear Caridwen. Then all the liquor in the 
cauldron, except the three charm-bearing 
drops that had fallen upon the finger of 
Gwion Bach, was poisonous. Therefore the 
cauldron burst. When Caridwen saw the work 
of her whole year lost, she was angry and 
seized a stick of wood. With the stick she 
struck Morda on the head. 

“ ‘Thou hast disfigured me wrongfully,’ he 
said, ‘for I am innocent.’ 

“ ‘Thou speakest truth,’ she replied. ‘It 
was Gwion Bach robbed me.’ 

“And Caridwen went forth after Gwion 
Bach, running. 

“When little Gwion saw her coming, be- 
cause of the magic drops that had touched his 
finger, he was able to change himself into a 
hare.” 

“You mean he became a rabbit?” growled 
Douglas doubtfully. 

“Yea, my son,” said Master Geoffrey who 
spoke with special gentleness to Douglas, “a 


54 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


rabbit, a hare. And thereupon Caridwen 
changed herself into a greyhound. And there 
was a race fleeter almost than the wind. 
Caridwen was nearly upon him, when little 
Gwion turned towards the river and became a 
fish.” 

“Was it the river Wye?” asked Alice, who 
liked to be intelligent. 

“It might have been, my child,” replied 
Geoffrey with a twinkle, thoughtfully laying 
his finger on one side of his nose, “but I have 
my reasons for thinking it was not.” 

“Please, sir,” cried Dicky, “was the fish a 
salmon?” 

“Yea, certain am I that the fish was a 
salmon. Then did Caridwen change herself 
from a greyhound into an otter, and chased 
little Gwion under the water. So close was 
the chase that he had to turn himself into a 
bird of the air. Whereupon Caridwen be- 
came a hawk and followed him and gave him 
no rest in the sky. She was just swooping 
down upon him, and little Gwion thought 
that the hour of his death had come, when he 
saw a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of 
the barn, and he dropped into the wheat and 


THE BOILING CAULDRON 55 

turned himself into one of the grains. And 
then what do you think happened?” 

The children listened breathlessly. Paul 
heard Mary say, “What did happen?” 

“Caridwen changed herself into a high- 
crested black hen, hopped into the wheat, 
scratching it with her feet, found poor little 
Gwion, who had once been a boy, then in truth 
became a rabbit, a fish, a bird of the air, and 
was now a grain of wheat.” 

“And swallowed him,” said Janet almost in 
tears, for she had watched Dame Williams’s 
hen scratching in the garden and swallowing 
all sorts of things. 

“Yea, Caridwen swallowed him! But so 
powerful was the magic of those three drops 
of truth which had touched his finger, that lit- 
tle Gwion appeared in the world again, enter- 
ing it as a beautiful child. Even Caridwen, 
because of his beauty, could not bear to kill 
him. So she wrapped him in a leathern bag 
and cast him into the sea. That was on the 
twenty-ninth day of April.” 

“It wasn’t Thanksgiving time,” said Paul, 
and then wondered why he said it. 

But Master Geoffrey seemed not to hear 


56 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

and went on, “Where Caridwen threw little 
Gwion into the sea was near the fishing weir of 
Gwyddno by Aberstwyth. And even as 
Caridwen had the ugliest son in all the world, 
so had Gwyddno the most unlucky, and his 
name was Elphin. This year Gwyddno had 
told Elphin that he might have the drawing 
of the weir on May Eve. Usually the fish 
that they drew from the weir were worth 
about one hundred pounds in good English 
silver. His father thought that if luck were 
evsr going to come to Elphin it would come 
with the drawing of the weir on May Eve. 

“But on the next day when Elphin went to 
look, there was nothing in the weir except a 
leathern bag hanging on a pole.” 

“Wasn’t there really?” asked Mary, her 
eyes big. 

“No, really. One of the men by the weir 
said to Elphin, ‘Now hast thou destroyed the 
virtue of the weir. There is nothing in it 
but this worthless bag.’ 

“ ‘How now,’ said Elphin, ‘there may be in 
this bag the value of an hundred pounds.’ 

“They took the bag down from the pole, 


THE BOILING CAULDRON 57 

and Elphin opened it; and as he opened it he 
saw the forehead of a beautiful boy. 

11 ‘Behold a radiant brow!’ cried Elphin. 
‘Taliesin shall he be called.’ ” 

“Had the truth made him beautiful?” asked 
Belle, who was given to moral reflections. 

“The old story did not say so but mayhaps 
it did. Although Elphin lamented his bad 
luck at the weir, yet he carried the child home 
gently on his ambling horse. Suddenly the 
little boy began to sing a song in which he told 
Elphin that the day would come when he 
would be of more service to him than the 
value of three hundred salmon. 

“And this song of comfort was the first 
poem the little radiant-browed Taliesin ever 
sang. But when Gwyddno, the father of El- 
phin, asked him what he was, he sang again 
and told the story of how he had fled in many 
shapes from Caridwen ; as a frog, as a crow, a 
chain, a rose entangled in a thicket, a wolf 
cub, as a thrush, as a fox, as a martin, as a 
squirrel, as a stag’s antler, as iron in glowing 
fire, as a spear head from the hand of the one 
who fights, as a fierce bull, as a bristly boar, 


58 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


and in many other forms, only to be gobbled 
up in the end as a grain of wheat by a black 
hen.” 

“Jiminy crickets!” exclaimed Douglas, so 
interested he forgot to be ugly, “that must 
have been some chase!” 

“ What is this?’ said Gwyddno to his son 
Elphin. 

“ ‘It’s a bard — a poet,’ the son answered. 

“ ‘Alas, what will he profit thee?’ 

“ ‘I shall profit Elphin more than the weir 
has ever profited thee,’ answered Taliesin. 

“And the little, radiant-browed boy began 
to sing another song: 

Wherefore should a stone be hard; 

Why should a thorn be sharp-pointed; 

Who is hard like flint; 

Who is salt like brine; 

Who is sweet like honey; 

Who rides in the gale ?’ ” 

“Why is a stone hard, please, sir?” asked 
Alice. 

“Aye, that’s it, why!” exclaimed Geoffrey, 
his eyes twinkling. “Then bade he Elphin 


THE BOILING CAULDRON 59 

wager the King that he had a horse better and 
swifter than any of the King’s horses. Thus 
Elphin did, and the King set the day and the 
time for the race at the place called the Marsh 
of Rhiannedd. And thither every one fol- 
lowed the King, who took with him four and 
twenty of his swiftest horses.” 

“Was it a real horse race?” Paul asked. 

“Yes, one of the strangest the world has ever 
known. The course was marked and the 
horses were placed for running. Then in 
came Taliesin with four and twenty twigs of 
holly, which he had burned black, and he put 
them in the belt of the youth who was to ride 
Elphin’s horse. He told this youth to let all 
the King’s horses get ahead of him, but as he 
overtook one horse after the other, he was to 
take one of the burned twigs of holly and 
strike the horse over the crupper, then let the 
twig fall.” 

“Was that to make him go faster?” asked 
Dicky. 

“Perhaps yes and perhaps no,” was the re- 
ply. “This, anyhow, the youth who rode El- 
phin’s horse was to do to each of the King’s 


6o 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


horses as he overtook it, and he was to watch 
where his own horse should stumble, and 
throw down his cap on that spot. 

“Thereupon the youth who rode Elphin’s 
horse and all the King’s riders pricked forth 
upon their steeds, their horses with bridles of 
linked gold on their heads and gold saddles 
upon their backs. And the racing horses with 
their shell-formed hoofs cast up sods, so 
swiftly did they run, like swallows in the air. 
Blades of grass bent not beneath the fleet, light 
hoofs of the coursers.” 

“Golly,” said Douglas, “did his horse win 
the race?” 

“Yea, Elphin’s horse won the race. Talie- 
sin brought Elphin, when the race was over, to 
the place where the horse had stumbled and 
where the youth had thrown down his cap as 
he had been told. Elphin did as Taliesin 
bade him and put workmen to dig a hole in 
this spot. And when they had dug the 
ground deep enough, there was found a large 
cauldron full of gold.” 

“Was that the cauldron come back whole?” 
asked Mary. 

“It might well be but the old story does not 


THE BOILING CAULDRON 61 


say. Then said Taliesin, ‘Elphin, behold! 
See what I give thee for having taken me out 
of the weir and the leathern bag! Is this not 
worth more to thee than three hundred sal- 
mon?’ ” 

“I think that story is full of gold,” said 
Alice thoughtfully. “It shines just as if it 
had come through a golden door or been seen 
through a golden window.” 

“Yea, my child, this is a palace of story 
greater than any Bishop’s or King’s palace 
ever built. Many windows hath it and many 
doors and all beautiful with the woven lattice 
of men’s thoughts and dreams, — full of poetry 
is it as mirrored water is full of light and 
shadows.” 

Douglas came out from under the spell, for 
he did not like that word “poetry.” He was 
afraid somebody would make him learn some- 
thing. But Paul was asking for another 
story. 

“Aye, on the morrow will I open another 
golden window for thee. It shall be the story 
of Pryderi and how Pryderi found a castle 
where no castle had ever been, how he entered 
it and saw ‘In the center of the castle floor 


62 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


... a fountain with marble work around it, 
and on the margin of the fountain a golden 
bowl on a marble slab, and chains hanging 
from the air, to which he saw no end.’ Of 
what happened to him when he seized this 
cup, how the castle faded away, how the he- 
roes of the story were changed to mice, and 
what happened thereafter, — ” 


CHAPTER VII 


STRANGE BOATS 

D URING the morning of the next day 
Douglas succeeded in getting himself 
kicked by Dame Williams’s cow. Even the 
gentlest cow will kick if you try to milk her 
out of hours and on the wrong side. When 
Douglas got onto his feet he was well cov- 
ered with dirt but not badly hurt. Dame 
Williams scolded him. And Janet picked up 
a fat golden bee and was stung. Dame Wil- 
liams bound a mud plaster on Janet’s hand 
and kissed her and did not scold. 

“For all the world like Aunt Jan!” said 
Mary. “Scolding Douglas and kissing 
Janet!” 

In the night they had heard the soft sound 
of running water. In the morning Ferris 
went to look and found what Dame Williams 
called the Monnow River. To the children 
it seemed no more than a big brook. Ferris 
63 


64 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


hung too far over the bank and fell in. He 
was fished out by Paul and dried off by Dame 
Williams. 

And Ferris stepped on the collie’s foot and 
was frightened because the poor hurt dog 
snapped. And Dicky who had climbed one 
of Dame Williams’s apple trees was walking 
the city’s wall at the back of the cottages. 
The wall was broad and thick enough for two 
wheelbarrows. Somehow Dicky managed to 
fall off and cut his forehead. Him, too, did 
Dame Williams scold. 

During the early afternoon came the grave 
young man again. 

“He’s so solemn,” whispered Belle to Alice, 
“it’s for all the world as if he came out of a 
book.” 

Paul heard Belle’s whisper and felt like 
pinching himself again to see whether he was 
awake or asleep. 

The grave young man had come from Mas- 
ter Geoffrey to bid Dame Williams to care 
well for the little Eleanor and to allow the 
others to go with him to the river bank. 
There Master Geoffrey waited for them and 
there would all embark for a journey down 


STRANGE BOATS 


65 


the river. Their return would depend upon 
the speed they made with the river current 
and upon the weather. 

Paul found himself walking with the grave 
young man who said his name was David. 
They left behind them little Eleanor and 
Dame Williams, the quaint homelike little 
cottage, the old Monnow Gate, the Monnow 
River, and went rapidly through the town 
towards the Wye River. 

On all sides were beautiful hills. It was a 
market day and trains of horses carrying grain 
on their backs were coming into town. These 
horses stood about in the streets while the 
grain was being sold. 

This made the children want their own lit- 
tle horses. But they consoled themselves with 
thoughts of the boats they would soon be go- 
ing down the river in. 

When they reached the river side the chil- 
dren stared in amazement. There was a sort 
of flat-bottomed, small barge in which sat 
Master Geoffrey with four boatmen. The 
other boats were like immense oblong wicker 
baskets, and a boatman in each with a sort of 
paddle. There were four of these. 


66 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


Paul heard Alice say, “Wouldn’t Aunt Jan 
just love one of these for a waste paper bas- 
ket!” 

“Golly!” said Douglas, “that’s some boat!” 

“Greetings, little ones!” called Master 
Geoffrey, “still by God’s blessing with us. 
Well, well, indeed!” 

“I suppose,” said Alice, “he can’t get over 
our not being the Green Children! Though 
why he should think we belong to any one but 
Aunt Jan is more than I can see.” 

Master Geoffrey rubbed his hands and 
seemed very happy. 

“And his smile,” whispered Alice to Mary, 
“makes you feel all warm and cosy like Dame 
Williams’s fireplace!” 

“Yes, and he is laughing, too, when he 
smiles,” whispered Mary to Alice. 

“Come,” called Master Geoffrey to Belle, 
“thee and thy little sisters is there place for 
here in my barge. In two of the coracles let 
each large lad take a small one. The other 
two contain our baggage.” 

So Paul took Ferris and Douglas took 
Dicky. The young man called David got in 
with Paul. And they all set out on their jour- 



They all set out on their journey by boats. 







STRANGE BOATS 


67 

ney by boat, Master Geoffrey’s barge leading 
and the coracles following, occasionally 
whirling about madly when they were caught 
in some current. 

“Cricky!” gasped little Dicky, “doesn’t it 
make you dizzy when they dance that way!” 

“See the girls, they’re looking back at us!” 
said Douglas, holding hard to the high side of 
the queer basket boat. 

They were whirling about in the eddies of 
the junction of the Monnow and Trothy 
rivers just below Monmouth. 

“Gee!” said Dicky, “it wouldn’t pay me to 
fall in here!” 

“You bet it wouldn’t! Just look at those 
islands!” 

There were two rather large islands covered 
thickly with trees and with sandy shallows 
where the currents made them. 

“Wouldn’t that island be bully for a game 
of Robinson Crusoe!” cried Douglas looking 
at the boatman. 

“Crusoe, little master? What might that 
be?” asked the boatman Pedr. “Is it an oil?” 

“Oil nothing! You know Crusoe and his 
man Friday?” replied Douglas. 


68 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Of them have I never heard,” answered 
the boatman. 

“They were cast away on a desert island,” 
explained Dicky. 

“To many hath that happened. Sit steady 
lest we be cast away ourselves and his Lord- 
ship who hath entrusted thee to me be angry.” 

“I’d be your man Friday,” whispered Dicky 
to Douglas. 

Now they were safely past the whirling ed- 
dies and going rapidly in the coracles down 
the beautiful river. 

Douglas asked where they were going. 
The boatman answered that they were to go 
to Tintern this afternoon and find shelter over- 
night near the Cloister. 

They passed a little village standing on the 
side of a wooded hill. They passed a ferry 
or two with odd barges and boats like those 
they were in. On the hills near the River 
Wye they occasionally caught sight of rough 
fortifications which David told Paul were 
built by the Romans. They passed places 
called “camp,” Roman, too. 

The river wound in and out but flowed 
chiefly to the south, was swift in places and 


STRANGE BOATS 


69 


quiet and shallow in others. In the distance 
they saw Offa’s Dyke. From time to time a 
little brook joined the Wye and went on with 
it. And always woods, woods everywhere at 
every winding and turning of the river. 

Janet was sure the fairies must live in the 
woods. Master Geoffrey said he, too, was 
sure they did. The four boatmen looked so 
troubled, Janet thought they must be afraid 
of the fairies. She explained to them that if 
you were good the fairies would not harm you. 
This made Master Geoffrey laugh aloud and 
puzzled little Janet. 

“But,” said Belle later to Alice, “it was 
just because Master Geoffrey was so jolly and 
liked laughing.” 

They reached the Cloister Ferry. Beyond 
them they could see the Cloisters. At a signal 
from Master Geoffrey, the boats put to shore 
and they all got out. 


CHAPTER VIII 


DAVID 

T HE boats were moored to the sloping 
bank. The children talked eagerly. 
They had much to tell each other about all 
they had seen on the way down the river: the 
swift water of the Wye running over its 
bright, pebbly bottom, the high wild banks 
through which they had often been, and the 
strange boats in which the boys had made the 
journey. 

“It’s like being the owl and the pussy cat,” 
said little Dicky. 

“Pray, who are the owl and the pussy cat?” 
asked the grave young man David. 

In a flash the children were singing all 
together: 

The Owl and the Pussy Cat went to sea 
In a beautiful pea-green boat ; 

They took some honey and plenty of money, 

Wrapp’d up in a five-pound note, 

70 


DAVID 


7i 


The Owl looked up to the stars above, 

And sang to a small guitar: 

“O lovely Pussy, Pussy my love, 

What a beautiful Pussy you are!” 

Pussy said to the Owl: “You elegant fowl, 

How charmingly sweet you sing! 

O, let us be married, too long have we tarried ; 

But what shall we do for a ring?” 

They sailed away for a year and a day, 

To the land where the bong tree grows, 

And there in the wood, a Piggy-Wig stood, 

With a ring in the end of his nose. 

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for a shilling 
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will!” 

So they took it away, and were married next day 
By the Turkey who lives on the hill. 

They dined on mince and slices of quince, 

Which they ate with a runcible spoon; 

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, 

They danced by the light of the moon. 

Paul happened to turn around and there 
was Master Geoffrey shaking with silent 
laughter. 

“ Tis a famous song, my children.” 

“I suppose,” Paul heard himself saying, “it 
is Thanksgiving Dinner made us think of 
Turkey and mince pie I” 


72 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Romance, what romance and what fore- 
sight doth that note represent!” laughed Geof- 
frey. 

“Is he laughing at us?” whispered Alice. 

“What’s romance, please, Master Geoffrey?” 
asked Ferris. 

“That question, little Master, will I answer 
with a story this night before ye go to bed. 
Aye, but that pea-green boat doth remind me 
of the Green Children.” 

“Master Geoffrey,” Paul heard Mary say, 
“we aren’t the Green Children, we’re Aunt 
Jan’s.” 

“We’re not string beans,” said Paul, and 
then thought how foolish that was. 

“Aye, well, see the buildings yonder!” 

They looked and saw the beginnings of 
those buildings which were to be famous the 
world over. 

“Walter de Clare, who is buried here, 
founded this Tintern in 1131.” 

In the distance the children saw workmen 
running busily about, and the beautiful stone 
looked freshly cut. 

“Then did Tintern Abbey become the pos- 
session of his nephew, Strongbow, Earl of 


DAVID 


73 

Pembroke. And here in 1149 was he, too, 
buried, — but two years ago.” 

Paul opened his eyes: 1 1 5 1 ! It could not 
be. Yet there they all were and Master Geof- 
frey looked very real and human. But he 
could see as plainly as he could see the grave 
young man David at his side, a large picture 
of Tintern Abbey which hung in the assembly 
room of the Fessenden School. 

“But where’s the Abbey, sir?” he asked. 

“Yonder,” answered Geoffrey pointing at 
the buildings. “There is a plan on foot for a 
great church.” 

Then the “abbey” as Paul always thought 
of it, was not yet built! And he had been 
swept back some seven hundred years in time! 

“The Abbey,” went on Master Geoffrey, “is 
now the property of Richard Strongbow his 
son. We shall see what he will do towards its 
completion.” 

Beyond the Ferry a few rods was a curious 
little inn. Towards this they were walking. 

Master Geoffrey, with David following 
him, turned in at the Inn. And such a quaint 
place as that little Tintern Inn or hostelry 
was. The children were all laughter and 


74 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

giggles over the conversation that took place. 

“Dame, God be here!” said Master Geoffrey 
simply to the plump able-looking woman who 
stood at the Inn door. 

“Sir, be ye welcome,” came the answer. 

“May we have beds for nine here within?” 

“Yea, well and cleanly, though ye were 
twelve and all on horseback.” 

“We are nine. Is there to eat here 
within?” asked Master Geoffrey. 

“Yea, enough, God be thanked!” 

“Bring it to us.” 

The good dame and her maid servant 
brought them food which they set on wooden 
forms and before which they placed stools. 

“ ’Tis but simple fare,” said the Dame, and 
she set before them fresh cheeses, curds and 
cream and oaten cake and two loaves made of 
beans and bran. 

After the plain hearty supper the children 
sat down around the fireplace for the promised 
story. 

“Now, little ones, David will I leave with 
thee here. Do as he bids thee in all things!” 

Paul looked at David. David must have 
been about twenty years old. He was very 


DAVID 


75 


fair with curling golden hair and blue 
eyes and that made him look younger. His 
features were sharply cut and strong. Doug- 
las was looking at him, too, and decided that 
David, despite his golden hair and blue eyes, 
was some one to be obeyed. 

“I must sleep the night at the Abbey,” con- 
tinued Master Geoffrey. “In the morning 
will I return. We can then take up our jour- 
ney towards Chepstow and the castle. Now 
the story. ’Tis a tale about mice and about 
heroes and is one told from the book whose 
title is ‘Mabinogion’ which is but Welsh for 
Tales for the Little Ones.’ I will give it to 
thee in the old words as near as I can.” 


CHAPTER IX 


MICE AND HEROES 

44 T)LEASE, sir/’ said Alice with her usual 

X politeness, “I’m afraid of rats and 
mice.” 

“Then gather up thy dress well,” answered 
Master Geoffrey, his eyes twinkling. 

Alice looked about anxiously and sat very 
still. 

“You silly,” growled Douglas, “these are 
mice in a story!” 

“Now listen carefully, my children! I 
must tell thee this tale rapidly. I will tell 
thee part of the story and then leave thee. 
That which remains shalt thou have on the 
morrow. I begin : They arose and went 
forth, and proceeded all four to the Gorsedd 
of Narberth, and their retinue with them.” 

“Please, Master Geoffrey, what is a Gor- 
sedd?” asked Belle, who had made up her 
76 


MICE AND HEROES 


77 

mind that some day she would make a book 
of these stories. 

“A Gorsedd, my child, is a most ancient 
Cymric or Welsh place for the celebration of 
religious rites. And as they sat thus, behold, 
a peal of thunder and with the violence of the 
thunderstorm, lo, there came a fall of mist, so 
thick that not one of them could see the 
other. And after the mist it became light all 
around.” 

“It’s going to be a story of enchantment,” 
said Mary wisely, “I can see!” 

“ ‘And when they looked towards the place 
where they were wont to see cattle and herds 
and dwellings, they saw nothing now, neither 
house nor beast nor smoke nor fire nor man 
nor dwelling, but the houses of the Court 
empty, and deserted and uninhabited, without 
either man or beast within them, without their 
knowing aught of what had befallen them, 
save those four only.’ ” 

“Who were the four, please, Master Geof- 
frey?” asked little Janet. 

“They were Manawyddan and his wife Rhi- 
annon, and Pryderi and his wife Kicva. ‘In 
the name of Heaven,’ cried Manawyddan, 


78 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


‘where are they of the Court, and all my host 
beside these? Let us go and see.’ So they 
came into the hall, and there was no man; and 
they went on to the castle, and to the sleeping- 
place, and they saw none; and in the mead- 
cellar and in the kitchen there was naught 
but desolation. So they four feasted, and 
hunted, and took their pleasure.” 

“Weren’t they fearfully worried?” asked 
sturdy little Mary whose kindly heart took re- 
sponsibility for others. 

“I suppose so, my child, but all that had be- 
fallen them did they not yet realize. Then 
they began to go through the land and all the 
possessions that they had, and they visited the 
houses and dwellings, and found nothing but 
wild beasts.” 

“Those weren’t the rats and mice, please, 
sir?” asked Alice. 

“Rats and mice called ‘beasts’!” sneered 
Douglas. “Whoever heard of such a thing!” 

“Nay,” said Master Geoffrey, who knew 
more and was more modest than Douglas be- 
cause he did, “these were not the beasts. 
They come later. . . . And when they had 
consumed their feast and all their provisions, 


MICE AND HEROES 


79 

they fed upon the prey they killed in hunting, 
and the honey of the wild swarms.” 

“Was it like Dame Williams’s honey?” 
asked Belle. 

“Nay, child, but browner and of not so 
pleasant a flavor, yet honey. Thus they 
passed the first year pleasantly, and the sec- 
ond; but at the last they began to be weary. 
‘Verily,’ said Manawyddan, ‘we must not bide 
thus.’ But still they hunted and still they 
kindled fires and cooked what they did kill. 
And one morning Pryderi and Manawyddan 
rose up to hunt. . . . Some of the dogs ran 
before them and came to a small bush which 
was near at hand. ... As they came near, be- 
hold, a wild boar of a pure white color rose up 
from the bush. . . . When the men came up, 
he fell back and betook him to flight. Then 
they pursued the boar until they beheld a vast 
and lofty castle, all newly built, in a place 
where they had never before seen either stone 
or building.” 

“I’d be more afraid of that white boar than 
of any old mice,” said little Janet with con- 
viction. 

“Aye, my child, and thou would’st do well 


8o 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


to fear it. ‘The boar ran swiftly into the 
castle and the dogs after him. Now when the 
boar and the dogs had gone into the castle, 
they began to wonder at finding a castle in a 
place where they had never before seen any 
building whatsoever. And from the top of 
the Gorsedd they looked and listened for the 
dogs.’ ” 

“Couldn’t they find the poor dogs?” asked 
Mary, who loved dogs. 

“So long as they were there they heard not 
one of the dogs nor aught concerning them. 
‘Lord,’ said Pryderi, ‘I will go into the castle 
to get tidings of the dogs,’ ” 

“I guess he loved the dogs,” said Dicky. 

“Aye, he did. But Manawyddan said, 
‘Thou would’st be unwise to go into this cas- 
tle, which thou hast never seen till now. If 
thou would’st follow my counsel, thou 
would’st not enter therein. Whosoever has 
cast a spell over this land has caused this castle 
to be here. Of a truth, answered Pryderi, I 
cannot thus give up my dogs. And for all the 
counsel that Manawyddan gave him, yet to the 
castle he went.’ ” 

“It makes me just shiver,” said Ferris, “to 



Pryderi went up to the bowl and laid hold of it 












MICE AND HEROES 81 

think of what he’s going to find. I know it 
was something terrible.” 

“Yea, little Master, it was terrible but it was 
beautiful, too. When he came within the 
castle, neither man nor beast, nor boar nor 
dogs, nor house nor dwelling saw he within 
it. But in the centre of the castle floor he 
beheld a fountain with marble work around it, 
and in the margin of the fountain a golden 
bowl upon a marble slab, and chains hanging 
in the air, to which he saw no end.” 

Belle tried to think what an endless chain 
was like. “Do you suppose, Master Geoffrey,” 
she asked, “that the chains really had no end?” 

“Aye, my child, and that chain without end 
is at one time romance and at another truth, 
then beauty sometimes and sometimes adven- 
ture. Well, Pryderi was greatly pleased with 
the beauty of the gold, and with the rich 
workmanship of the bowl, and he went up to 
the bowl and laid hold of it. And when he 
had taken hold of it, his hands stuck to the 
bowl, and his feet to the slab on which the 
bowl was placed, and all his joyousness for- 
sook him, so that he could not utter a word. 
And thus he stood.” 


82 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“I just knew it was going to happen!” said 
Alice very near to tears. 

“Did his hands stick to the gold bowl al- 
ways?” asked Dicky. 

“Didn’t he ever get free again?” asked 
Paul. 

“Answers to those questions and the end of 
the tale shall ye have to-morrow, my children, 
for now must I leave ye. Dame,” said Master 
Geoffrey, turning to the good woman and her 
maid Jane, who had been listening spell- 
bound to the tale, “what owe we?” 

“We shall reckon to-morrow,” came her an- 
swer. 

“Bring these young folk to sleep,” said 
Geoffrey turning to go. 

“Jane, light the candle,” said the Dame to 
her servant, “and lead them above to the up- 
per rooms and bear them hot water to wash 
their feet. Cover them with cushions. They 
shall sleep well!” 

“As if,” said Belle, later, “anybody could 
ever go to sleep for wondering whether Pry- 
deri ever got his hands off the golden bowl 1” 


CHAPTER X 


OBSTINATE JANE 

W HEN the next day they were starting 
off to continue their journey down the 
River Wye to Chepstow, Paul heard the 
good Dame, her servant a-gape beside her, 
speak to the Master. 

“Sir, sir, did the man named Pryderi never 
get free from that golden bowl?” 

“Master,” mumbled Jane, “I shall get ill 
unless ye tell us afore ye depart.” 

Paul did not hear what Master Geoffrey re- 
plied and had to wait for his own answer until 
their early supper which they took on the riv- 
er’s shore. He had just come from the Abbey 
to which the boys but not the girls were ad- 
mitted, for no women had set foot within that 
place from the day it was begun. He had 
seen many monks in their long gowns and also 
workmen running about in bare feet and their 
smocks which were nothing but long shirts 
83 


84 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


that came to their knees. Paul was becoming 
accustomed to children dressed like grown- 
ups; if apprentices, then like the older work- 
men in smocks to the knee; if little girls of a 
gentle class, then in the simple flowing gowns 
a gentlewoman wore in the reigns of Henry I 
and Stephen. 

He had seen, too, many boys not more than 
seven or eight years old running about and 
working with the older men. These were the 
bound apprentices who were bound for an- 
other seven or eight years. They were little 
fellows roughly but kindly treated, fed on 
rough but plentiful fare, coarse bread, beer 
and cold meat. They were thus early taught 
to work hard and to care much about money. 

David had taken them and left the girls 
behind with the Dame, who, not to be outdone 
by Master Geoffrey, had comforted them with 
a fable. She said there were some drudging 
goblins came every night to do her work for 
her. She said that with God’s permission 
they were spirits playing pranks. Their faces 
are wrinkled as with great age ; they are small 
of stature, not half an inch long, and they were 
clothed in patched garments. As soon as the 


OBSTINATE JANE 85 

doors of her Inn were closed for the night, 
these goblins run out and go up to the fire. 

“Oh,” said Janet, “I’m so glad we didn’t 
know that last night. I never could have 
slept a wink.” 

“How do they get in?” asked Mary. 

“They run in. Then from their bosoms 
they take frogs, roast them over the embers 
and eat them.” 

“But how could a goblin only half an inch 
long take a frog out of his bosom?” asked 
Mary. 

“By my soul they do!” said the Dame. 

“Maybe,” said Janet, “the frogs were just 
little bits of pollywogs.” 

“Yea, little Mistress, that’s it. They are 
merry little beings and do their work more 
swiftly than the hand of man could. And 
they do no harm save in one thing: they mis- 
lead wayfarers at night. Many is the way- 
farer has stumbled to this door late at night 
from some slough into which he has been mis- 
led and from which he has heard their laugh- 
ter making sport of his trust.” 

The girls were to remember later what gob- 
lins could do to wayfarers. But of that they 


86 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


did not then know. As the Dame moved 
about her housework the girls could hear her 
excitedly scolding the servant Jane. 

“Jane, thou wilt never be a model house- 
wife, and then what will be the fate of Ten- 
kin?” 

“Aye, Mistress, Jenkin can fetch and carry 
for himself,” said Jane, shrugging her sturdy 
shoulders. 

“By my soul,” exclaimed the Dame angrily, 
“that is no speech to give me. If thou are to 
be a good housewife, let thy distaff be always 
ready for a pastime, that thou be not idle.” 

“But, Mistress,” the girls heard Jane say, 
“a woman cannot get her livihg honestly with 
spinning of the distaff.” 

“Nay, but it stoppeth a gap and must needs 
be had. For laziness a goblin would shame 
thee. For many reasons it is convenient for a 
husband to have sheep of his own.” 

“Aye, Mistress, one reason is to make a 
slave of his wife.” 

“Nay, Jane, a good wife is a partner not a 
slave. She taketh part of the wool from the 
sheep to make her husband and herself some 
clothes. And at the least way, she may have 


OBSTINATE JANE 87 

the locks of the sheep to have cloth, blankets, 
coverlets.” 

“I like not spinning,” the children heard 
the rebellious Jane say. 

“No matter,” answered the Dame, “it is 
wives’ occupation and I will yet turn thee into 
a model housewife. Thou must learn to win- 
now the wheat, to make malt, to wash and 
wring thy clothes dry, to make hay.” 

“I like not work in the field,” Belle heard 
Jane say. 

“No matter,” patiently said the Dame. 
“And thou must ride to the market to sell but- 
ter, cheese, milk, eggs, chickens, pigs, geese 
and all manner of grain, else will thy Jenkin 
think ill of thee as a wife.” 

“I will bide with thee, Mistress.” 

“Tut, tut, that would make thee a spinster to 
be beaten and despised!” exclaimed the Dame 
in great alarm. 

“Dear me,” whispered Alice to Belle, 
“Aunt Jan is a spinster but nobody would 
dare beat her or despise her.” 

“I guess,” said little Mary thoughtfully, 
“times are different.” 

“Yes,” said Belle, “I’ve heard Aunt Jan 


88 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

say she didn’t know what the world would do 
without a few old maids to look out for the 
married people who can’t look out for them- 
selves!” 

The lively conversation was still going on 
between Mistress and maid. 

“And, Jane, thou must learn to buy well all 
manner of necessary things for the household, 
and to make true reckonings. This is 
woman’s work.” 

“I guess she means keeping accounts,” said 
Mary, “and I hate keeping accounts.” 

The rebellious Jane was trying to object to 
reckonings but her Mistress made short work 
of her objections. The children heard her 
say, “Hold thy peace, Jane, and get about thy 
work!” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE GOLDEN BOWL 

O NCE in their strange boats again the riv- 
er’s course ran chiefly to the southwest. 
As they sped onward the boatmen tol-d the 
children how the coracles were made. They 
were wickerwork boats, made of woven 
wicker, as stout baskets are made, but covered 
with skins sewed strongly together, the skins 
greased with butter to make them pliable and 
watertight. 

“My eye!” piped little Dicky, giggling, 
“think of spreading your boat with butter!” 

This started all the children into a gale of 
laughter which could be heard flapping like 
some mad little wind of joy from cliff to cliff 
of the high rocks through which they were 
going. Later Master Geoffrey told them that 
when the British used to make the boats, they 
sometimes built them very large, crossed wide 
seas in them between Ireland and Wales and 

89 


90 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


Wales and Brittany. They had gone even as 
far as Iceland with boats equipped with sails 
as well as oars. 

Beneath some high winding cliffs they got 
out, moored their boats, kindled a fire and 
cooked their supper of bacon and eggs. They 
had huge loaves of bread and mead for the 
men and milk for the children. 

“It’s very much like a picnic at home,” said 
Paul, looking about him puzzled. 

“Gee, I’d like to climb that cliff!” said 
Douglas. 

“Why not!” exclaimed little Dicky, always 
ready for adventure. 

“If I asked the Master he’d say I couldn’t 
go,” said Douglas. 

“Then what’s the good,” piped Dicky, “he 
wouldn’t let you!” 

“I’ll go without asking,” answered Doug- 
las. 

“How could you?” said Dicky excited. 

“You just watch and see!” boasted Douglas. 

“Come, little ones, to thy supper!” called 
Master Geoffrey, who did not hear what they 
said about the cliffs. “Eat rapidly! Be 
merry! Then for the end of the tale about 


THE GOLDEN BOWL 


9i 


Pryderi and on to Chepstow this evening and 
lodgings there before dark!” 

“I’m so glad I don’t have to lie awake an- 
other night wondering how that story turned 
out,” said Belle. 

“Listen well, my children! Manawyddan 
waited for him till near the close of the day. 
And late in the evening, being certain that he 
should have no tidings of Pryderi or of the 
dogs, he went back to the palace. And as he 
entered, Rhiannon looked at him. ‘Where,’ 
said she, ‘are thy companions and thy dogs?’ 
‘Behold,’ he answered, ‘the adventure that has 
befallen me.’ And he related it all unto her. 
‘An evil companion hast thou been,’ said Rhi- 
annon, ‘and a good companion hast thou lost’ 
And with that word she went out, and pro- 
ceeded towards the castle according to the di- 
rection which he gave her.” 

“Had Manawyddan been a bad companion 
because he didn’t go into the castle to look for 
Pryderi?” asked Dicky. 

“And let the dogs get lost and didn’t go 
after them?” said Mary. 

“Yea, but Rhiannon found the gate of the 
castle open. She was nothing daunted and she 


92 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


went in. And as she went in, she perceived 
Pryderi laying hold of the bowl, and she went 
towards him. ‘Oh, my lord,’ said she, ‘what 
dost thou here?’ ” 

“Was he still stuck fast to the golden bowl?” 
asked little Janet. 

“Still, my child. Then Rhiannon took hold 
of the bowl with him; and as she did so her 
hands became fast to the bowl, and her feet to 
the slab, and she was not able to utter a word. 
And with that, as it became night, lo, there 
came thunder upon them, and a fall of mist, 
and thereupon the castle vanished, and they 
with it.” 

“And that was the end of that old story, I 
s’pose!” said Douglas, suddenly grunting. 

Douglas had a poor opinion of himself and 
that made him want to sneer at others. Also 
in his heart it made him want others to think 
well of him, — -which they seldom did, he was 
so selfish, noisy and rude. 

But Master Geoffrey answered patiently, 
“Nay, my son, that was not the end. Mana- 
wyddan left alone, accustomed himself to fish, 
and to hunt the deer in their covert. And 
then he began to prepare some ground, and 


THE GOLDEN BOWL 


93 


he sowed a croft and a second, and a third.” 

“What’s a croft?” asked Paul, who was very 
fond of knowing the meaning of words. 

“ ’Tis a small inclosed field near a farm, my 
son. No wheat in the world ever sprung up 
better than did the wheat in those crofts. And 
thus passed the seasons of the year until the 
harvest came. And he went to look at one of 
his crofts, and behold it was ripe! ‘I will 
reap that to-morrow,’ said he. On the morrow 
in the grey dawn he went to reap the croft, and 
when he came there he found nothing but the 
bare straw. Every one of the ears of the 
wheat was cut off the stalk, and all the ears 
carried entirely away.” 

“Please, Master Geoffrey,” said Alice po- 
litely, “would anything come out of those 
woods to carry us away?” 

“Not if thou wast a good child and stayed 
with Master Geoffrey.” 

“What happened to the second croft?” asked 
Belle. 

“The same misfortune, my child. ‘Evil be- 
tide me,’ he said standing by the third croft, 
‘if I watch not here to-night, whoever carried 
off the other wheat will come in like manner 


94 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


to take that.’ And he told Kicva, the wife of 
Pryderi, all that had happened. And he went 
to watch the croft. And at midnight, lo, there 
arose the loudest thunder in the world. And 
he looked, and behold the mightiest host of 
mice in the world, which could neither be 
numbered nor measured. And he knew not 
what it was until the mice had made their way 
into the croft, and each of them climbing up 
the straw and bending it down with its weight, 
had cut off one of the ears of wheat. And he 
saw not a single straw there that had not a 
mouse to it. And they all took their way, 
carrying the ears with them.” 

“Oh dear, oh dear!” sighed Alice, “I am so 
afraid of mice!” 

“You’re a silly,” growled Douglas, “to be 
afraid of any old mouse!” 

“Manawyddan had good cause, my son, to 
fear mice. Albeit one mouse is but a timid 
creature and can do but little harm. But in 
wrath and anger did Manawyddan rush upon 
the host of mice. He could no more come up 
with them than if they had been gnats, or birds 
in the air, except only one, which though it 
was but sluggish went so fast that a man on 


THE GOLDEN BOWL 


95 


foot could scarce overtake it. He caught it 
and put it in his glove and tied up the opening 
of the glove with a string.” 

“Was that so the mouse couldn’t get out 
of the glove?” asked Janet. 

“Yea, my child. Then he came to the hall 
where Kicva was, and he lighted a fire, and 
hung the glove by the string upon a peg. 
What hast thou there, Lord?’ said Kicva. ‘A 
thief,’ said he, ‘that I found robbing me. To- 
morrow I will hang it, and before Heaven, if 
I had them, I would hang all the mice.’ ‘My 
lord,’ said she, ‘it would be unseemly for a 
man of dignity like thee to be hanging such a 
reptile.’ ‘Such as I have, I will hang,’ he an- 
swered. And he went to the Gorsedd of Nar- 
berth, taking the mouse with him. And he 
set up two forks on the highest part of the 
Gorsedd.” 

“Was he really going to hang the little 
mouse?” asked Dicky. 

“Yea. And as he was placing the cross 
beam upon the two forks, behold a priest came 
towards him upon a horse covered with trap- 
pings. It was now seven years since he had 
seen in that place either man or beast, except 


96 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


those four persons who had remained together 
until two of them were lost. ‘Good day to 
thee, lord,’ said the man upon the horse, ‘what 
art thou doing?’ ‘I am hanging a creature in 
form of a mouse caught robbing me.’ ‘Rather 
than see thee touch this reptile, I will pur- 
chase its freedom.’ But Manawyddan an- 
swered that he would not take any price for 
it.” 

“I guess he thought that mouse was a bad 
one,” said Dicky. 

“Yea, so he did. And as he was noosing 
the string about the mouse’s neck, up came a 
bishop’s retinue with his sumpter, horses and 
attendants. The Bishop himself offered him 
seven pounds for the mouse’s ransom but Man- 
awyddan would not set it free. Then did the 
Bishop offer him four and twenty pounds but 
neither for that would Manawyddan set the 
mouse free. ‘I will give all the horses thou 
seest in this plain,’ said the Bishop, ‘and the 
seven loads of baggage and the seven horses 
they are upon.’ ‘By Heaven, I will not.’ 
Manawyddan answered. ‘Since for this thou 
wilt not,’ said the Bishop, ‘do so at what price 
so ever thou wilt.’ ‘I will that Rhiannon and 


THE GOLDEN BOWL 


97 


Pryderi be free/ answered Manawyddan. 
‘That thou shalt have/ said the Bishop. Even 
then Manawyddan would not set the mouse 
free till he knew who the mouse might be. 
She turned out to be the Bishop’s wife who 
had come to despoil Manawyddan. And the 
Bishop was not a bishop at all but was Llwyd, 
the son of Kilcoed who had caused the en- 
chantment.” 

“I think that was just like a mouse,” said 
Alice with decision, though no one knew what 
she meant. 

But Douglas said nothing and no one 
thought to look for him. 

“And was it the son of Kilcoed who trans- 
formed all the mice?” asked Paul. 

“Yea, it was he. He said to Manawyddan, 
‘When it was known that thou wast come to 
dwell in the land, my household came and 
besought me to transform them into mice, that 
they might destroy thy wheat. And it was 
my own household that went the first night. 
And the second night also they went and they 
destroyed thy two crofts. And the third night 
came unto me my wife and the ladies of the 
Court, and besought me to transform them. 


98 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


I have now told thee who this mouse is, set 
her therefore free.’ ‘I will not, by Heaven,’ 
answered Manawyddan, ‘until I see Pryderi 
and Rhiannon with me free.’ ‘Behold here 
they come!’ And thereupon behold Pryderi 
and Rhiannon ! And Manawyddan rose up to 
meet them and to greet them.” 

Just when Master Geoffrey reached those 
words the young man David touched him re- 
spectfully. 

“Sir,” he said, “the boy Douglas is gone.” 

They looked about. There was no sign of 
Douglas anywhere. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE DARK PEOPLE 

Y ES, Douglas was gone. In some three to 
four hours, even with the long twilight, 
Paul knew it would be dark. How could 
Douglas know anything of the forest or its 
ways along a river where he had never been 
before? 

After David had spoken to Master Geof- 
frey, the Master had sat quite still for a few 
seconds. Not a word did the children speak. 
Then he got up and went thoughtfully towards 
the boatmen who were grouped about the 
coracles and barge on the shore. As he passed 
the children, Paul heard him mutter, “The 
dark people! the dark people!” 

“Who are the dark people?” asked Mary. 

“I don’t know but Master Geoffrey fears 
them,” replied Paul. 

“Anyhow they aren’t those tiresome Green 
Children,” exclaimed Janet. 

99 


ioo GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


Ferris looked about them fearfully. The 
dark edges of the woods were so close. 

“Are they Indians?” he asked. 

“Indians!” exclaimed David. “What be 
Indians?” 

They could not make him understand. And 
of America he had never heard. 

“They are the Silurians,” explained David, 
“who live wild here in these hills.” 

“Who are the Silurians?” Belle wanted to 
know. 

“A people here before the Romans came. 
They have sharp dark faces and hard beady 
eyes, — little brown people,” explained David, 
“and cruel.” 

“Are they Brownies?” asked Janet looking 
about her fearfully. 

“Nay, little one, not so little as that and not 
useful but cruel and hard like their faces.” 

“When did the Romans come to Great Brit- 
ain?” asked Ferris who had a taste for history. 

“Many times, little Master, but ’tis easier 
to tell thee when they left than when they 
came. They left Britain about the beginning 
of the fifth century and they left these little 
dark people still not wholly conquered. 


THE DARK PEOPLE 


IOI 


“I don’t care anything about these Silurians 
— whoever they are,” wept Alice, “or the 
Brownies, but if he got under an enchantment 
and was turned into a mouse Aunt Jan would 
never, never forgive us. Boo ! hoo ! hoo !” 

“Boo! hoo! hoo!” sobbed Janet, too, who 
had kept from tears as long as she could. 
“Doug wouldn’t make a good mouse at all!” 

And they were all too upset to see how 
funny was even the idea of Douglas being 
turned into a mouse. 

“Will the dark people really get Douglas?” 
asked Dicky, wishing now that he had told 
them he knew Douglas was planning to slip 
away but still uncertain whether he would tell 
them where he thought Douglas had gone. 

“They could,” said David gravely. “The 
young master knows not the way of these 
woods. There be wide places in these woods, 
remote and desolate and with horrible rocks. 
And there are wild beasts in these forests, and 
places#of hiding and lurking.” 

“Places where the dark people could lurk?” 
asked Dicky, his eyes growing bigger and 
bigger. 

“Aye, places of hiding,” answered David, 


102 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


shrewdly studying Dicky’s pale face. To 
himself he said, “Here is the lad knoweth 
what hath happened.” Aloud he went on, 
“Places where men might be robbed and 
slain.” 

“They wouldn’t kill Douglas?” whispered 
Dicky. 

“If he erred and went out of his way and 
took the way that was unknown and came to 
the place where thieves lay in wait, he would 
be in dire peril of his life. Birds and bees 
fleeth into these woods, birds to make nests 
and bees to gather honey, but a boy that goeth 
into these woods with none to guard him and 
to guide him is in peril,” said David. 

“Boo! hoo! hoo!” sobbed Dicky. “He 
wanted to climb that cliff and he slipped off 
back there and said he’d find a way. Boo! 
hoo! hoo!” wailed Dicky. “And now he’ll 
never come back.” 

And Dicky was so unhappy, he did not re- 
sent Belle’s motherly arm. 

Paul heard her say, “Well, anyhow, we 
ought to be thankful that Eleanor is not here. 
We’ve enough babies as it is and too many 
bad boys!” 


THE DARK PEOPLE 


103 


Paul and David were on the way down to 
the river bank where Master Geoffrey had 
been giving directions to the boatmen about 
torches and weapons. He left David and 
Paul and half the boatmen in charge of the 
camp where a big fire by the shore was to be 
kept burning ali night. And to David and 
the men he distributed long bows and a torch 
apiece. 

It might be daylight again before he could 
return. They were to guard the things well 
till he got back. Then he plunged into the 
woods, with his armed men and the still un- 
lighted torches and they saw him no more. 

As David and Paul were returning to the 
little group of frightened children, Paul was 
thinking that Master Geoffrey had not spoken 
a word of fault-finding nor had he wasted time 
by any needless speaking, and Paul knew he 
was a wise as well as a good man. 

Until dark came David amused the children 
teaching them how to shoot the long bow. 

“How did you learn?” asked little Dicky, 
who loved bows and arrows, his voice still 
trembling. 

“My poor father was as diligent to teach 


io 4 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


me to shoot as to teach me any other thing,” 
answered David. 

“Where’s your father?” asked Janet, won- 
dering whether they would ever see Uncle 
George again. 

“In Ireland, little one.” 

“What’s his name?” asked Ferris. 

“David *MacMurchard even as mine and 
would that all children had so good a father 
as mine!” 

“You don’t look like one, but is he an In- 
dian?” asked Mary. 

“An Indian, little Mistress. Pray what 
may that be?” 

“Indians use bows and arrows, so I thought 
there might be Indians in Ireland.” 

“Of such have I never heard. My father 
had my bows brought me according to my 
age and strength. And as I grew older and 
stronger, so did he cause my bows to be made 
bigger.” 

“Is this bow too big for me?” asked Ferris. 

“Much too big, little one.” He turned to 
Paul. “It is nearer thy stature. Except men 
be brought up to it, they will never learn to 
shoot well.” 


THE DARK PEOPLE 


105 

He placed the bow in Paul’s hands. “Now 
draw!” 

Paul drew but it was more than the strength 
of his slender arms could manage. 

“Nay, lay thy body on thy bow. Do not 
draw with the strength of thy arms but with 
the strength of thy body.” 

But even so Paul made poor work of his 
archery. He saw how much skill and 
strength it took to use one of these long bows. 

That night they slept not far from the blaz- 
ing fire. On the edge of the wood two boat- 
men guarded them; and on the river’s edge 
two more. Near the fire David and Paul 
sat, torches ready to hand in case of need. 
The children did not lack for bedding, for in 
two of the biggest coracles, when they had 
embarked at Monmouth, had been placed 
everything needed in bedding, food, equip- 
ment to last them for emergencies on their 
whole journey. Little Dicky and Ferris lay 
rolled up together in a great comforter. 
Alice and Mary slept together, and Janet and 
Belle nearby. 

Alice was just falling off to sleep and 
dreaming that she had a cat, speckled on the 


io6 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


feet and the face and the ears, a cat that leapt 
and rushed on a thousand mice as if they were 
one mouse, when a big log broke and showered 
sparks and flames. She was suddenly wide 
awake and wondering where Douglas was. 
Beside her Mary slept soundly. Then she 
fell asleep to dream of cats white, cats red, 
cats black and cats piebald, leaping and danc- 
ing, like flames; then lying suddenly still and 
slyly waiting for mice. One of the boatmen 
called to the other and again she woke sud- 
denly. 

“If only,” she thought, “I did have a cat 
it would make it so much safer!” 

After that she slept again and saw a whole 
host of cats playing with mice and tossing 
them to and fro and then eating them. Sud- 
denly cats began to fall from the trees, show- 
ers of cats, and they all fell on their feet and 
ran off. 

Alice opened her eyes. Where was she? 
She saw Paul sitting by the fire, his head nod- 
ding. She saw that daylight was coming. She 
heard a halloo from the woods. The men 
started to their feet. Paul jumped up. 

In the grey light of dawn a group of men 


THE DARK PEOPLE 


107 

with torn clothes and scratched legs were com- 
ing towards them. In their midst was a boy, 
his face cut and bleeding, his hand bound up. 
That boy was Douglas. 


CHAPTER XIII 


RIDDLES 

T HERE was not much of Douglas’s odd- 
looking clothes left, — not even enough 
to keep him warm. And his courage seemed 
to be about as ragged as his clothes. The 
children did not jest or tease. They did not 
want to, for Douglas was a bruised and un- 
happy boy, with cut hands and face and lip 
that quivered as if he had all he could do to 
keep from tears. 

They had found him just as some of the 
dark people were surrounding him. Douglas 
had been running away from them, stumbling, 
tearing his clothes. But they had trapped 
him in among some of the cliff rocks to which 
he had climbed and were closing in on him. 
Master Geoffrey and the four boatmen with 
their long bows and other weapons reached 
Douglas just in the nick of time. The little 
dark men with their ugly faces and tattooed 

108 


RIDDLES 


109 

bodies were frightened away. Then Doug- 
las fainted. 

“You can’t teach a boy like that anything,” 
said Belle later. 

“Won’t he,” said Alice, looking very wise, 
“learn from experience?” 

“If there’s enough of it !” said Belle wear- 
ily. 

They were going down the river now to- 
wards Chepstow, all the coracles and the barge 
close together. They had not stopped even to 
cook their breakfast. That, said Master 
Geoffrey, they would have at their lodgings in 
Chepstow. Two huge loaves of bread, partly 
wheat and partly bran, had been cut into 
chunks. Each boy and girl and each man had 
his own chunk and ate it hungrily without 
even water to drink. 

After the bread was eaten, the boatmen be- 
gan singing in the early morning light. It 
was a strange chant, mournful, sung over and 
over. 

Seinte Marie virgine 
Moder Jesu Christes Nazarene 
Onfong schild help thine Godric 
Onfong bring neglic 
With The in Godes ric. 


Iio GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


The children did not understand the words. 

“But that’s only one thing we don’t under- 
stand,” said Mary, “and what’s one thing!” 

“Well, anyhow,” said Paul, “this is the 
twelfth century!” 

But his voice sounded strange to him. 

“It’s all a riddle to me!” sighed sturdy 
Mary. 

“Ah, riddles, my little one,” smiled Master 
Geoffrey, “what is everything but a riddle 
more or less? Shall I ask thee some riddles?” 

“Yes, yes,” shouted Ferris, who loved rid- 
dles. 

“What thing is it that never was nor ever 
shall be?” 

“I know,” said Janet, “it’s a Brownie seen 
by broad daylight.” 

“Nay, little one. The thing that never was 
and never shall be is a mouse making her nest 
in a cat’s ear!” 

“That’s one on you, Alice,” chuckled fat lit- 
tle Mary. “Master Geoffrey knows you don’t 
like mice!” 

“Why does a dog turn him twice about ere 
that he lieth down?” Master Geoffrey asked 
Mary. 


RIDDLES 


iii 


“I guess you can’t answer that,” said Janet. 

“I guess I can,” answered Mary. “It’s 
cause he’s making his bed.” 

“Nay, little one, but ’tis a close answer. 
’Tis because he knoweth not his bed’s head 
from its foot.” 

“You didn’t know it!” said Janet to Mary. 

“Well, little one,” continued Master Geof- 
frey, speaking to Janet, “if thou art so much 
wiser than others, why do men make an oven 
in the town?” 

“To bake bread, please, sir,” answered 
Janet meekly. 

“Nay, little one, ’tis because they cannot 
make the town in the oven.” 

The children had a good laugh over that, 
and Janet said the answer over and over, for, 
she thought, that would be one of the first 
things she would ask Aunt Jan when she saw 
her again. 

“Come, young master,” said Master Geof- 
frey turning to Paul, “wherefore set they upon 
church steeples more a cock than a hen?” 

“Is it because he can stand the storms bet- 
ter than a hen?” asked Paul thoughtfully. 

“Nay,” said Master Geoffrey, eyes twin- 


1 12 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


kling, “though he might. But if men should 
set there a hen, she would lay eggs and they 
would fall upon men’s heads.” 

“And that would be awful,” said Belle, 
“worse than one of Aunt Jan’s egg shampoos!” 

“Little Mistress,” continued Geoffrey, turn- 
ing to Belle, “what thing is it that hath none 
end?” 

“I guess you can’t answer that!” piped 
Dicky. 

“Is it a long river?” 

“Nay for the longest river finds an end in 
the sea. It is a bowl hath none end.” 

Belle made up her mind that she would 
teach Eleanor this riddle. 

“What is it that freezeth never?” Master 
Geoffrey asked Ferris. 

“Is it the South Pole?” asked Ferris who 
prided himself on his geography. 

“South Pole!” exclaimed Master Geoffrey. 
“Pray what sort of a stick might that be?” 

“South Pole, you silly!” scoffed Mary, look- 
ing at Ferris. “It’s just as cold at the South 
Pole as at the North!” 

Paul looked at Master Geoffrey’s puzzled 
face and realized that the Chronicler had 


RIDDLES 


”3 


never heard of either a north or a south pole. 
Then he tried to explain but that was useless 
too. And that set him to wondering when it 
was men began talking about the North Pole 
and the South Pole. 

Master Geoffrey was repeating his question 
and answering it himself, “The thing that 
freezeth never is hot water.” 

“Well,” said Belle, “that ought to be easy 
enough for any one to answer!” and she made 
up her mind she’d catch Aunt Jan. 

“What thing is it,” he asked, turning to 
Douglas again, “the less it is the more it is 
dreaded?” 

Douglas had been looking about and listen- 
ing more but he was still a very unhappy boy. 
He shook his head. 

“A bridge,” answered Master Geoffrey. 

“I think they’re just awful,” said Mary, 
“when a bridge is nothing but one plank and it 
wiggles so!” 

“Aye, little one, and there is a bridge!” 

Master Geoffrey pointed down the river. 
They could see a low bridge, the great castle 
and many little buildings. 

“ ’Tis Chepstow,” said David. 


1 1 4 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“And breakfast!” piped Dicky patting his 
empty little stomach. 

“I hope,” said Mary, “there will be honey 
on bread and pink salmon to eat.” 

“Salmon there will be,” answered David, 
“for here is great catch of salmon made.” 

“Um, urn,” said Dicky, feeling very hun- 
gry indeed. 

“Yonder is the ford, let us land there!” com- 
manded Master Geoffrey. 


CHAPTER XIV 

A NEW SUIT 

44 ^ I ''HE best of this,” said Mary who was 
A walking with Alice and who loved ad- 
venture, “is that you never know what’s going 
to happen next.” 

“And that is just like Aunt Jan,” Paul 
heard Alice say, “for you never can tell what 
she is going to do next!” 

There they were in Chepstow, safe and 
sound, their baggage in a little Inn called Ye 
LABOUR IN Vain off the market place, their 
feet trotting busily after David and Paul who 
were to buy a suit for Douglas. Already they 
had seen Chepstow castle, its defences on the 
land side were ditches, protected by round 
towers. They had looked at its massive nail- 
studded oaken door. On the left of the gate- 
way beneath the round tower was a dungeon. 
The girls shivered a little when David told 
them he had no doubt some one was pining 
away in it at that very moment. 


ii6 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Just to think, Paul,” sighed Alice, “we are 
looking at a real live castle!” 

David had told them what the different 
courts contained. On the river side was a 
room cut out of solid rock. The third court 
contained the small chapel, sixty feet long by 
thirty broad. 

“Here to this tower,” said David, “came 
the Welsh and the Saxons in great number to 
barter.” 

“What’s ‘barter’ mean, please?” asked 
Mary. 

“For exchange of goods — to market what 
they have.” 

“Oh,” said Alice, “it’s a sort of store.” 

David looked puzzled. “Store? Nay, 
they store nothing here, they barter what they 
have or they sell. Chep means the bartering 
place, a stockaded market. Aye, and here we 
are at the market place.” 

They went on to the steps of the hall which 
was in the market to bargain for their cloth. 

“Can’t you get a suit for Douglas ready- 
made?” asked Mary. 

“Ready-made, little one? Pray what is 
that?” 


A NEW SUIT 


xi 7 

By no means could they make David under- 
stand that they meant a garment made up and 
ready to put on. Of that he had never heard. 

Upon the steps of the hall they found a 
young and comely woman selling various lots 
of cloth, medley, red, green, azure, blue, yel- 
low, dark blue, mulberry-colored, striped, 
checkered, and other kinds. 

“Dame,” Paul heard David say, “what hold 
ye the cost of an ell of this cloth or what is 
the cloth worth whole? In short, speak: how 
much is it the ell?” 

“Sir, reasonable; I shall sell to ye reason- 
ably. Ye shall have it good cheap.” 

“Yea, truly,” answered David, “for I must 
not spend too much money. Take heed what 
I shall pay.” 

“Four shillings for the ell, if it please ye.” 

“For so much should I have good scarlet, — 
not this.” 

“If ye can get it, ye have a right to it. I 
have some scarlet cloth which is not of the 
best but which I would not sell for seven shil- 
lings.” 

“I believe ye,” Paul heard David say tact- 
fully. “But this cloth I would buy is not cloth 


ii8 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


of so much money. That know ye well.” 

“Oh,” whispered Alice to Mary, “it’s just 
like a bargain day in the city.” 

“Sir, what is it worth?” the capable young 
woman asked David. 

“Dame, it is worth three shillings to me.” 

“How much shall I cut?” she asked. 

“Cut as much as ye think will be needed for 
a large lad to make a surcoat, a coat, a cloak 
and a pair of hose.” 

“Sir, fifteen ells.” 

“In God’s name, cut them. Of what 
breadth is it?” 

“Two ells and a half.” 

“That is good breadth. Cut at that other 
end.” 

“It is all one, by my soul,” said the young 
woman shrugging her shoulders, “but I will 
do it gladly.” 

“Dame, measure well!” said young David, 
looking at her sternly. 

“Sir, I should never forgive myself, if I 
withheld anything from ye.” 

“Dame, that know I well. If I had not 
trusted ye, I should have called the official 
measurer.” 


A NEW SUIT 


1 19 

“Sir, if it please ye, he shall be called !” 

“Nay, truly, Dame,” answered David, “I 
am content. Ye have done well by me. How 
much cometh it to, this that I have of ye?” 

“Sir, if ye give me nineteen shillings, ye 
shall pay me well.” 

“Here it is, Damoiselle, count it!” 

“What money give ye to me?” 

“Good money. These be groats of Eng- 
land, the old groats of England which be 
worth five pence. The new be worth four 
pence.” 

“Ye say truth, fair sir, this is all. good 
money. I am well pleased with ye.” 

And with a few more pleasant remarks and 
several curtseys from the young dame, they 
walked towards their Inn, Paul bearing the 
cloth for Douglas’s suit. A tailor was to be 
called in to do the cutting and stitching. 

On their way back to the little Inn, they 
watched with interest all the clothes they saw, 
the fur-lined very full mantles worn by many 
of the nobles; on the men long hair twisted 
into pipes and ringlets, the neat beards 
trimmed and cut about the face. They saw 
many men — and boys big and littlfc were 


120 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


dressed exactly like them — wore white linen 
shirts as an under garment which showed at 
the neck under the long tunic, sleeves tight 
to the wrist, boots of soft leather, socks with 
embroidered tops, caps of skin or cloth and 
many without a brim. 

To Paul boys little and big dressed in this 
fashion looked odd but attractive. But the 
girls dressed like the older women looked still 
more odd. He found himself marvelling how 
they themselves had all come by these clothes 
they wore? They must be real, for he had 
seen Douglas’s new suit bought, and now he 
was to see it made up. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 

W HILE the little tailor cut and fitted 
Douglas, Dav.id kept all the children 
quiet and contented telling them a story. 

“For,” he said, “I am an Irishman and when 
we landed this morning, at the ford, I was put 
in mind of an Irish story whose friendship 
should belong not only to Ireland but to all the 
world.” 

“Is it a real story?” asked Dicky who was 
looking out into the street at some pigs run- 
ning around there, hopelessly mixed up with 
hens and little children. 

“Aye, real, if human love is real, though 
composed it may be in the time of Caesar.” 

“Caesar was some time ago!” muttered 
Douglas whose bruised body and wounded 
pride were both now feeling better. 

“Aye, but the love of David for Jonathan 
is olden” said David. “And like the story 
121 


122 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


of Jonathan who loved David as his soul, it is 
one of the most wonderful ever sung or writ- 
ten.” 

“I know that story,” said Janet, “for Aunt 
Jan reads it to us from the Bible on Sundays. 
And the Bible says that David loved Jonathan 
more than a mother can love.” 

“Did they sing this old story?” asked Belle. 

“Aye, sometimes. But the story of Ferdi- 
ad and Cuchulain is not so gentle as that of 
David and Jonathan.” 

“Is it a wicked story?” asked Ferris, who 
scarcely knew the meaning of the word 
“wicked.” 

“The Queen therein was treacherous,” an- 
swered David. 

“Oh, goody!” piped Dicky, “it’s got a 
Queen and I love queens, I do.” 

Then David began: 

“ ’Twas the men of Ireland settled it that 
Ferdiad and Cuchulain should fight the next 
day. But when they sent messengers to fetch 
Ferdiad he would not come, for he learned 
that they wanted him to fight against his 
friend, Cuchulain. 

“What made them think he would fight 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 123 

against his own friend? I wouldn’t,” said 
Mary. 

“I know not, little one, except that they were 
men and not so gentle as women. Then 
Maeve, the Queen, sent the Druids after him, 
who by their hurtful poems about Ferdiad 
should raise three blisters on his face, the blis- 
ters of Shame, Blemish and Reproach. 

“So Ferdiad had to come to answer the 
Queen, Maeve. She offered him great riches 
if he would fight against his friend, Cuchu- 
lain, — speckled satins and silver and gold, 
with lands, horses and bridles.” 

“Did they have a cloth market in Ireland 
over a thousand years ago?” asked Alice. 

“It may be, but I know not. But to Maeve 
Ferdiad replied, ‘If thou offeredest me land 
and sea, I would not take them without the 
sun and moon.’ 

“For he loved his friend Cuchulain so that 
there was no wealth which could tempt Fer- 
diad to go out against him to wound him. 

“ ‘But,’ said Maeve, ‘thou shalt have thy 
fill of the jewels of the earth, — here is my 
brooch with its hooked pin and my daughter, 
Findabair.’ 


124 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“ ‘Nay,’ answered Ferdiad, ‘these things and 
all things like unto them shall remain thine, 
for there is nothing I would take to go into 
battle against my friend Cuchulain. Nothing 
shall come between him and me, — who is the 
half of my heart without fault and I the half 
of his own heart. By my spear, were Cuchu- 
lain killed, I would be buried in his grave — 
the one grave for the two of us! Misfortune 
on thee, Maeve, misfortune on thee, for try- 
ing to put thy face between us!’ ” 

“She must have been a very wicked mis- 
chief-making queen,” said Janet. 

“Then Maeve considered how she should 
stir him up and thus get her own ends. 

“Aloud she said to her people, ‘Is it a true 
word Cuchulain spoke?’ 

“ ‘What word was that?’ asked Ferdiad 
sharply. 

“ ‘He said,’ answered Maeve, ‘that there 
would be no wonder in it if thou did’st fall in 
the first trial of arms against him.’ ” 

“Oh but that was a lie,” said Paul. 

“Aunt Jan says,” repeated Belle, “that a 
lie is the meanest thing on God’s earth.” 

“Aye, ’tis a coward’s weapon. Then was 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 125 

Ferdiad angry. ‘That had Cuchulain no 
right to say! If it be true he said this thing, 
then will I fight with him to-morrow!’ 

“At that Fergus left Ferdiad and Maeve, 
and went out in his chariot to tell Cuchulain 
what had happened. 

“ T give my word,’ exclaimed Cuchulain, 
‘for my friend to come against me is not my 
wish !’ 

“ ‘Ferdiad’s anger is stirred up,’ said Fer- 
gus, ‘and he has no fear of thee.’ 

“ ‘Be quiet,’ replied Cuchulain, ‘for I can 
stand against him anywhere!’ 

“ ‘It will go hard with thee getting the bet- 
ter of him,’ answered Fergus, ‘for he has the 
strength of a hundred.’ 

“ ‘My word and oath,’ said Cuchulain, ‘it 
is I who will be victorious over Ferdiad.’ ” 

“I guess they were all mischief-makers ex- 
cept Ferdiad and Cuchulain,” said Mary. 

“Aye, little one, the mischief-maker find we 
everywhere. Then went Fergus joyfully back 
to the encampment. But Ferdiad, gloomy 
and heavy-hearted, slept only through the 
early part of the night. Towards the end of 
night he told his driver to harness his horses. 


126 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“ ‘Ferdiad,’ said the driver, ‘it would be 
better for thee to stop here, for grief will come 
of that meeting with Cuchulain.’ 

“Yet the chariot was yoked and they went 
forward to the ford, and day and its full light 
came upon them there. Then Ferdiad slept 
while he waited for the coming of Cuchulain. 

“With the full light of day Cuchulain him- 
self rose up, and said to his driver, ‘Laeg, yoke 
the chariot, for the man who comes to meet 
us to-day is an early riser.’ 

“ ‘The horses are harnessed,’ answered 
Laeg. 

“With that Cuchulain leaped into the char- 
iot, and about him shouted the people of the 
Gods of Dana, and the witches and the fair- 
ies.” 

“Dear me,” said Alice, “are there witches 
and fairies both in this story?” 

“Nay, they were there but little in it. Then 
Ferdiad’s driver heard them coming, the 
straining of the harness, the creaking of the 
chariot, the ringing of the armour and the 
shields, and the thunder of the horses’ hoofs. 

“ ‘Good Ferdiad,’ said the driver, laying his 
hand upon his master, ‘rise up! Cuchulain 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 127 

comes, and he is coming not slowly, but quick 
as the wind or as water from a high cliff or 
like swift thunder.’ 

“And they saw Cuchulain coming, swoop- 
ing down on them like a hawk from a cliff 
on a day of hard wind. Cuchulain drew up 
on the north side of the Ford. 

“ T am happy at thy coming,’ said Ferdiad. 

“ ‘Till this day would I have been glad to 
hear that welcome,’ answered Cuchulain, ‘but 
now it is no longer the welcome of a friend.’ 

“Then each spoke unfriendly words and 
each began to boast. 

“ ‘Before the setting of the sun tonight,’ said 
Ferdiad, ‘thou wilt be fighting as with a moun- 
tain and it is not white that battle will be.’ 

“ ‘Thou art fallen into a gap of danger,’ an- 
swered Cuchulain, ‘and the end of thy life has 
come.’ 

“ ‘Leave off thy boasting,’ shouted Ferdiad, 
‘thou heart of a bird in a cage, thou giggling 
fellow.’ 

“But to this Cuchulain replied, ‘Thou wast 
my heart companion, thou wast my people, 
thou wast my family, — I never found one who 
was dearer.’ 


128 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW' 


“ What is the use of this talk?’ asked Fer- 
diad. 

“ ‘Good Ferdiad,’ answered Cuchulain, ‘it 
is not right for thee to come out against me 
through the meddling of Maeve. Do not 
break thy oath not to fight with me. Do not 
break friendship. We were heart compan- 
ions, comrades and sharing one bed.’ 

“And Ferdiad answered, ‘Do not be remem- 
bering our companionship, for it will not pro- 
tect thee this day. It is I will give thee thy 
first wounds.’ ” 

“I think Cuchulain was gentler than Fer- 
diad and loved more,” said Paul. 

“Gentler he was, but I doubt if he loved 
more. Then began they with their casting 
weapons, their round-handled spears and their 
little quill spears and their ivory-hilted knives 
and their ivory-hafted spears, and these weap- 
ons were flying to and fro like bees on the 
wing on a summer’s day. Yet good as the 
throwing was, the defence was better, and 
neither hurt the other. There was no cast 
that did not hit the protecting shields, and by 
noon their weapons were all blunted against 
the faces and bosses of the shields. 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 129 

“So they left these weapons and took to their 
straight spears. And from the middle of 
mid-day till the fall of evening each threw 
spears at the other. But good as the de- 
fence was, in that time each wounded the 
other. 

“ ‘Let us leave this, now,’ said Ferdiad. 

“Then each came to the other and put his 
hands around the neck of the other and gave 
him three kisses. And that night one en- 
closure held their horses and at one fire sat 
their chariot drivers. And of every healing 
herb that was put on Cuchulain’s wounds, 
Cuchulain sent an equal share westward across 
the Ford for the wounds of Ferdiad. And of 
food and drink Ferdiad sent a fair share 
northward to Cuchulain and hi's men. 

“And in the morning they rose up and came 
to the ford of battle.” 

“Oh dear me,” sighed Alice, “I just wished 
they had gone on loving each other and not 
fighting!” 

“That’s like a girl,” growled Douglas to 
whom the tailor was now fitting the cloak. 

“ ‘What weapons shall we use to-day?’ 
asked Cuchulain. 


130 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“ ‘To-day is thy choice, for I made the 
choice yesterday/ answered Ferdiad. 

“ ‘Then let us take our great broad spears, 
for so by the end of evening shall we be nearer 
the end of the fight.’ 

“From the twilight of the early morning 
till the fall of evening each cut at and 
wounded the other, till, were it the custom of 
birds in their flight to pass through the bodies 
of men, they might have done so on this day. 

“ ‘Let us stop from this, now,’ said Cuchu- 
lain, ‘for our horses and men are tired and 
down-hearted. Let us put the quarrel away 
for a while.’ 

“So they threw their spears into the hands 
of their chariot drivers, and each put his hand 
around the neck of the other and gave him 
three kisses. And that night they slept on 
wounded men’s pillows their chariot drivers 
had made for them. A full share of every 
charm and spell used to cure the wounds of 
Cuchulain was sent westward to Ferdiad. 
And of food Ferdiad sent a share northward. 

“Again early on the morrow they came to 
the ford of battle, and there was a dark look 
on Ferdiad that day.” 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 131 

“I know they’re going to kill each other 
and I wish they wouldn’t, for they really did 
love each other.” 

“ Tt is bad thou art looking to-day,’ said 
Cuchulain. 

“ Tt is not from fear or dread of thee I am 
looking this way,’ answered Ferdiad. 

“ ‘No one has ever put food to his lips, 
Ferdiad, and no one has ever been born for 
whose sake I would have hurt thee.’ 

“ ‘Cuchulain,’ cried Ferdiad, ‘it was not 
thou, but Maeve, who has betrayed us, and 
now my word and my name will be worth 
nothing if I go back without doing battle with 
thee.’ 

“And that day they fought with their 
swords, and each hacked at the other from 
dawn till evening. When they threw their 
swords from them into the hands of their char- 
iot drivers, their parting that night was sad 
and down-hearted. 

“Early the next morning Ferdiad rose up 
and went by himself to the Ford, and there 
clad himself in his shirt of striped silk with 
its border of speckled gold, over that a coat 
of brown leather and on his head a crested 


i 3 2 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

helmet of battle. Taking his strong spear in 
his right hand and sword in his left, he began 
to show off very cunningly, wonderful feats 
that were made up that day by himself against 
Cuchulain. 

“But when Cuchulain came to the Ford, it 
was his turn to choose the weapons for the 
day. And they fought all the morning. By 
mid-day the anger of each was hot upon him, 
and Cuchulain leaped up onto the bosses of 
Ferdiad’s shield, but Ferdiad tossed him from 
him like a bird on the brink of the Ford, or as 
foam is thrown from a wave. Then did Cu- 
chulain leap with the quickness of the wind 
and the lightness of a swallow, and lit on the 
boss of Ferdiad’s shield. But Ferdiad shook 
his shield and cast Cuchulain from him. Cu- 
chulain’s anger came on him like flame ; and so 
close was the fight that their shields were 
broken and loosened, that their spears were 
bent from their points to their hilts, and so 
close was the fight that they drove the river 
from its bed, and that their horses broke away 
in fear and madness. 

“Then Ferdiad gave Cuchulain a stroke of 
the sword and hid it in his body. And Cu- 


THE BATTLE OF THE FORD 133 

chulain took his spear, Gae Bulg, cast it at 
Ferdiad, and it passed through his body so 
that the point could be seen. 

“ ‘O Cuchulain,’ cried Ferdiad, when Gae 
Bulg pierced him, ‘it was not right that I 
should fall by thy hand! My end is come, 
my ribs will not hold my heart. I have not 
done well in the battle.’ 

“Then Cuchulain ran towards him, and put 
his two arms about him, and laid him by the 
Ford northward. And he began to keen and 
lament, ‘What are joy and shouting to me 
now? It is to madness I am driven after the 
thing I have done. O Ferdiad, there will 
never be born among the men of Connaught 
who will do deeds equal to thine.’ 

“ ‘O Ferdiad, thou wast betrayed to thy 
death! Thou to die, I to be living. Our 
parting forever is a grief forever! We gave 
our word that to the end of time we should not 
go against one another. 

“ ‘Dear to me was thy beautiful ruddiness, 
dear to me thy comely form, dear to me thy 
clear grey eye, dear thy wisdom and thy talk 
and dear to me our friendship! 

“ ‘It was not right thou to fall by my hand, 


134 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


it was not a friendly ending. My grief! I 
loved the friend to whom I have given a drink 
of red blood. O Ferdiad, this thing will 
hang over me forever! Yesterday thou wast 
strong as a mountain. And now there is noth- 
ing but a shadow!’ ” 

Little Mary’s face quivered and she wiped 
away tears with the back of her hand. 
Douglas was silent and the tailor had to speak 
to him twice to make him turn around. Paul 
looked thoughtfully out upon the little street 
of Chepstow. He knew the story must hare 
been true, for he knew he himself could have 
loved that way. 


CHAPTER XVI 


GAMES 

“T TE didn’t say, ‘Now, listen well, my 

X X children.’ ” 

“Well, then,” Alice said to Janet, “could 
it be a real story?” 

“Of course, you silly. “It’s just that he 
tells it different.” 

“I like Master Geoffrey best,” said Ferris, 
“and I hope he’ll come back soon.” 

“It isn’t kind to say you like him best,” re- 
plied Mary, “for David is taking beautiful 
care of us and is doing his best to bring us out 
where we can sit on the sand and watch the 
games.” 

“And he’s so nice and thoughtful about 
everything he can do for us,” said Paul. 

“That’s why Master Geoffrey brought him 
along,” growled Douglas. 

“You old bear with a sore head I” exclaimed 
Belle. 


135 


136 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“Anyhow,” said Dicky, “I’ll be glad to see 
those ponies he’s going to get us!” 

“I just love ponies!” said Mary. 

“And then we’re off to the hills!” sighed 
Alice. 

“It’ll be better than loafing around in this 
old town,” said Douglas. 

“I don’t think you’ve anything to complain 
about with a brand new suit on that cost a 
fortune!” 

“Who’s complaining!” 

“Usually you are, Doug, unless you’re run- 
ning away!” 

After that sally from Belle, Douglas was 
silent. Before them lay the river. At one 
side a great level place where games were be- 
ing played. The boys of Chepstow had been 
playing a game of ball. It was not any game 
Paul, Douglas, Dicky and Ferris had ever 
seen before. It wasn’t baseball but it was 
like football. Yet it was not football. They 
had seen cock-fighting. Mary said she was 
glad that was over, for she had never even 
dreamed a game could be so cruel. 

Then into the field came a company of 
young men on horseback, the best leading 


GAMES 


137 


them. There they practiced feats of war with 
lance and shield until the boys cried out in 
excitement. They had never seen such feats 
of skill and strength on horseback. And 
Douglas said just wait till he got his pony and 
he would show them something worth looking 
at. 

After this they fought a battle on the water. 
A shield was hung upon a pole fixed in the 
middle of the stream. Then a boat without 
oars was got ready, in the bow of which stood 
a young man alert, as the swift current car- 
ried him down the river, to charge upon the 
shield. He rode strongly against the shield, 
broke his lance, and down he fell into the 
water. The crowds of people standing by 
the riverside shouted and shook with laughter 
when the young man fell into the water. 

But Paul looked serious and turned to Da- 
vid to ask whether the boy would not be 
di owned. 

David looked about him. 

“Have no fear,” David said, “he will be 
saved.” 

And there sure enough were two boats 
darting towards the struggling man. They 


13B GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 

recovered him quickly and hauled him into 
one of the boats. 

Just then Master Geoffrey came quietly 
threading his way through the crowd towards 
the group of children. 

“Did you get the ponies?" cried Dicky. 

“Aye, little one, eight ponies, stout plump 
ponies for thee and the others. For David 
and myself and the grooms six strong horses." 

“Oh, goody, goody!" cried Mary. 

On the field some maidens were dancing to 
timbrels, young and old standing about watch- 
ing them. But Master Geoffrey leading and 
David following with a huge supper basket, 
they withdrew from the games onto the levels 
or sands to eat their supper. 

“Here hath more been eaten than food," 
said Master Geoffrey, looking about him, the 
gleam of the story-teller in his eyes. 

“Was it savage beasts?" asked Janet. 

“Nay, little one, ’twas savage sand and sav- 
age water that devoured all till the Romans 
in the first century of Christ threw up yonder 
sea wall to a distance of some twenty miles. 
Yonder ditches have sluices at their outfall, 


GAMES 


139 

called gowts to prevent the inflow of water 
at high tide.” 

The boys, interested now in the ditches, went 
to look. 

“Gee,” said Douglas, “think of those jolly 
old Romans having thrown up that dyke!” 

“That was some time ago — 2000 years!” 
said Ferris who liked figures and dates. 

“No,” Paul heard himself say, thought- 
fully, “this is the twelfth century. I don’t 
know why it is or how it is but it is. So it was 
only about eleven hundred years ago, — not 
quite that.” 

“Well anyhow,” said Douglas, “it’s some 
job this living a thousand years ago!” 

Master Geoffrey looked at the children puz- 
zled, then shook his head as if the puzzle were 
not to be solved. “Are they the Green Chil- 
dren from the wool pits come back?” they 
heard him mutter. 

“I never can make out,” said Alice in a low 
voice to Mary, “whether he says wool pits or 
wolf pits.” 

He went on aloud. “But even now if a 
high tide comes at the same time as a gale 


1 40 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

from the southwest, the water leapeth this 
embankment and floodeth everything.” 

“Cricky, tha-t must be some flood!” ex- 
claimed Douglas who loved any feat of en- 
gineering and who was greatly impressed by 
this wall of the Romans. 

“Aye, ’tis. I have known as many as a 
score of villages to be flooded.” 

“Villages made up of those little round huts 
we’re always passing?” asked Paul. 

“Aye, and cattle twenty-four miles in 
length and four in breadth drowned.” 

From Mary came a chuckle. Then she 
whispered to Alice and Alice giggled. All 
the children began to titter. 

“By my faith, little one, at what laughest 
thou?” said Master Geoffrey, pinching Alice’s 
ear. 

“Please, sir, it was the cattle twenty-four 
miles in length and four broad!” 

He laughed with the children. “Aye, lit- 
tle ones, ’twas a slip. I meant twenty-four 
miles of the land was flooded. And so swiftly 
do the waters run when they overleap the 
dyke that even a greyhound running before 
them cannot escape. The cowherds who tend 


GAMES 


141 

the cattle, those who are busy in the fields 
farming, those who travel — all perish. 
There may none escape. Hundreds have died 
in these floods. Dost recall the tale I told 
thee about Grendel and Beowulf?” 

They answered that they did and began beg- 
ging for another story. 

“ ’Twas Grendel the marsh-stepper, the 
monster, which took mighty strides and de- 
voured many of the thanes of the old king. 
The country folk say that the morning fog 
goes a-fishing or a-hunting. When the fog 
rises it goes a-hunting and ’twill be a fine 
day. When it goes a-fishing, the mist falls, 
and we can see but little clear. But little 
is clearly to be seen in those ancient times. 
Forsooth Grendel may have been some such 
marsh-striding power of the waters.” 

“Oh, tell us another story here before we go 
back to our Inn!” begged Mary. 

“Back to our Inn first, little ones. Then a 
brief tale, for'we must to bed early this night.” 

“To-morrow it will be the ponies!” sighed 
Dicky, too happy to talk. 

“Can we see the ponies to-night?” asked Fer- 
ris. 


142 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“Nay, the grooms sleep with them. We 
will wkit till the morrow.” 

On the way back through Chepstow to their 
Inn, the children saw sights which saddened 
them much more than cockfighting. They 
saw a man fastened onto a pillory, a whetstone 
hung about his neck. When they asked why 
he was being punished, they were told that his 
name was Nicholas Mullere and that he had 
that day lied to a customer in the market 
place. 

“Do they always punish so,” asked Belle, 
thoughtfully, “for telling a lie?” 

“Yea, little Mistress, what is meaner than a 
lie? And how may men work and live to- 
gether to the good of all unless they tell the 
truth?” 

In the pillory next to the man was a beggar 
woman imprisoned there because she had 
stolen a little child from a Chepstow mer- 
chant, stripped her of her good clothes so 
that her family might not know her, and 
forced the little thing to help her beg. 

“But stealing a child seems so much worse,” 
said Paul. 


GAMES 


H3 

“Aye, ’tis bad and this Alice Salesbury hath 
a bad character.” 

“I do wish if she’s awfully wicked, her 
name weren’t Alice,” said little Alice. 

As they turned the corner, ahead of them 
two constables were leading a woman between 
them. They were taking her to prison. She 
was the wife of the Chepstow poulterer who 
had sold four woodcocks for more than they 
were worth. 

“Jiminy, that’s a punishment for profiteer- 
ing!” said Douglas. 

“Profiteering?” asked Master Geoffrey. 
“Pray what may that be?” 

Paul tried to explain. 

“Ah,” said Master Geoffrey, “an unjust 
profit.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE BRAVE COWHERD 

4t TVTOW listen well, my children!” began 

JL\I Master Geoffrey. “The story I shall 
tell thee is not set upon the sands as these little 
villages here but upon high rocks in the North 
of this county, at Whitby in the Monastery of 
Streoneshalh.” 

“Is that very far away?” asked Ferris, who 
liked to reckon up distances in geography. 

“Aye, to the north upon a high cliff where 
the sea beats in storm.” 

“Much higher than that castle upon the 
rock?” asked Paul looking out upon Chepstow 
Castle in the fast-falling evening light. 

“Aye, much higher. There beneath those 
cliffs one day a little lad stood by a fishing 
boat from which he had just leaped.” 

“Was the boy Paul?” asked Ferris, who ad- 
mired Paul as much as Dicky admired Doug- 
las. 


144 


THE BRAVE COWHERD 145 

“Nay, ’twas a smaller lad, and he dug his 
toe in the sand and looked up to the edge of 
the rocky cliff above him. 

“ ‘What dost see, lad,’ said his uncle who 
was tossing his catch of fish to the sand, 
‘creatures of the mist in the clouds yonder?’ 

“ ‘Nay, uncle,’ answered Finan, ‘there is no 
Grendel in the clouds. Last night at the Hall 
a man sang to the harp that Grendel was a 
moor-treader. Also he told of the deeds of 
the hero Beowulf and he said that Beowulf 
had killed Grendel.’ 

“Finan’s eyes were on the distant moor 
which was the color of flame in the evening 
light” 

“Was it like that rose color there on the 
sands, please, Sir?” asked Alice, looking out. 

“Aye, and already twinkling above were lit- 
tle stars bright as the sheen of elves. There, 
he knew, for everybody said so, lived elf and 
giant and monster. There in the moor pools 
lived the water elves. Across its flame of 
heather strode mighty march-gangers like 
Grendel and in the dark places of the moun- 
tains lived a Dragon, crouched above his pile 
of gold and treasure.” 


146 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“I never do get tired of stories about 
dragons,” said Dicky. “Is this to be about a 
dragon?” 

“Nay, but about an angel. . . . Out there 
stood the miraculous tree, of great size, on 
which were carved the figures of beasts and 
birds and strange letters which told what gods 
the heathen worshipped before the gentle re- 
ligion of Christ was brought to England. 
There lived the Wolf-Man, too, so friendless 
and wild that he became the comrade of the 
wolves which howled in those dark places. 
There lived a bear, old and terrible, and the 
wild boar, rooting up acorns with his huge 
curved tusks. 

“Nearer the village was the wolf’s head tree 
— more terrible tree than any in the mysteries 
of forest and fen-land. This was the gallows 
on which the village folk hung those who did 
evil. The little lad Finan could see the tree 
where it stood alone in the sunset light. And 
he heard the rough cawing of ravens as they 
settled down into its dark branches to roost. 

“ ‘Caw, caw,’ croaked one raven, “ba-a-d 
man, ba-ad man.’ 

“ ‘Caw, caw,’ sang another raven, ‘ba-ad.’ 


THE BRAVE COWHERD 147 

“Then they flapped their wings and settled 
to their sleep. 

“ ‘Uncle,’ Finan said, ‘I will go up the cliff 
side.’ 

“The fisherman looked up. He heard the 
chanting from the church, and saw an im- 
mense white cross upright on the cliff’s edge. 
But he knew not of what adventure little 
Finan was thinking. 

“ ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘go. Perhaps thou wilt 
see the blessed Hild.’ ” 

“Was she the angel?” 

“Nay, my child, but so it came about that 
little Finan climbed the cliff on that evening 
which was to prove a night wonderful in its 
miracle. There was born that night that 
which, like the love of Christ, has made chil- 
dren’s lives better and happier. 

“Finan reached the top of the cliff by those 
steps which were cut into it and then took the 
main road, paved and straight, which led 
toward the Great Hall. He went along 
slowly under the apple trees. He saw a 
black-haired Welsh woman draw water. Lit- 
tle children not so big as Finan were sitting on 
the steps by their mothers who were spinning 


148 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

in their doorways. He passed a dog gnawing 
a bone flung to it for its supper. 

“A cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, 
saw Finan and greeted him. A jeweller was 
fixing ornaments on a huge horn he had pol- 
ished. Carpenters were leaving a little cot- 
tage which they were building. The road 
was full of men, swineherds and cowherds, 
ploughboys and wood-choppers from the for- 
ests beyond, gardeners and shepherds, all on 
their way to the Great Hall. Some men 
there were in armour, too, their long hair 
floating over their shoulders.” 

“Oh, it’s just like being alive to-day!” ex- 
claimed Janet. “Is the world always the 
same?” 

“Nay, it changeth and yet it is the same for 
all that. Inside the windows, torches and 
firelight would soon begin to flame, and mead 
would be passed. Already a loud horn was 
calling all who would to come. 

“Suddenly something sharp stabbed Finan 
and he cried out. A man, a woman and a 
little child came rushing from one of the 
household yards, flapping their garments and 
screaming, ‘The bees ! The bees !’ ” 


THE BRAVE COWHERD 149 

“I guess Dame Williams’s bees had got 
out,” said Dicky. 

“Did the children in those days have 
honey?” asked Paul. 

“Aye, in those days even as now. And they 
had just found their precious hive empty. 
The bees had swarmed. Unless they could 
find them there would be no more sweet-smell- 
ing mead made from honey in that household 
that year. 

“Another bee stung Finan. And there 
they were clinging to a low apple bough above 
his head ! They hung in a great cluster like a 
bunch of dark grapes. 

“ ‘Dame,’ said a cowherd, who was in the 
road, to the people who were crying out for 
their bees, ‘yonder lad knows where the bees 
are.’ 

“Finan rubbed his head and looked up at 
the angry humming swarm. 

“ ‘Aye!’ he said and laughed. 

“ ‘Throw gravel on the swarming bees,’ 
called the cowherd Caedmon. 

“The man and woman and Finan took 
handfuls of gravel from the roadside and 
flung them over the bees, and sang again and 


1 50 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


again, ‘Never to the wood, fly ye wildly 
mote!’ 

“Then they laughed and the bees swarmed. 

“‘Now, said Caedmon, who was a wise 
cowherd, ‘hang veneria on the hive, and if ye 
would have them safe lay on the hive a plant 
of madder. Then can nought lure them 
away. 5 

“When they reached the Hall, folk were al- 
ready eating inside. Little Finan saw Caed- 
mon go in quietly, for Caedmon was attached 
to the Abbess Hild’s monastery and had a 
right to go in and eat. Inside they were sing- 
ing for the sake of mirth, and the torches and 
firelight were flaming. 

“Through the open window Finan saw the 
harp being passed from one to another. 

“They sang many songs as the harp passed 
from hand to hand, songs of war, and songs of 
home. 

“But when the harp was passed to Caed- 
mon, who had charmed the bees, he shook his 
head sorrowfully, saying that he could not 
sing, and got up sad and ashamed and went 
out. 

“Little Finan wanted to shout through the 


THE BRAVE COWHERD 151 

window to him to sing about the bees. He 
did not dare, for he was afraid of being discov- 
ered. Instead he followed behind Caedmon. 
He wished to ask him why he could not sing. 
This he did not dare to do, either, but he went 
on to the fold where the cowherd had gone to 
care for the cattle. And there on the edge of 
the fold the little boy, unseen by the cowherd, 
fell asleep. Shortly afterwards Caedmon, 
too, fell asleep. 

“It must have been near the middle of the 
night when the stars one and all were shining 
and dancing with the sheen of millions and 
millions of elves, and the sea down below the 
cliff was singing a mighty sleep-song, that lit- 
tle Finan started wide awake, hearing a voice 
speak. 

“ ‘Caedmon,’ spoke a man who stood be- 
side the: sleeping cowherd, ‘sing me some- 
thing.’ 

“Caedmon drowsily answered, ‘I cannot 
sing anything. Therefore went I away from 
the mirth and came here, for I know not how 
to sing.’ 

“Again the mysterious stranger spoke, ‘Yet 
thou couldst sing.’ 


152 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“And Finan heard the sleep-bound voice of 
Caedmon ask, ‘What shall I sing?’ 

“ ‘Sing to me,’ said the stranger, ‘the begin- 
ning of all things.’ 

“And at once Caedmon began to sing in a 
strong voice and very beautifully, the praise 
of God who made this world. And his song 
had all the beat of sea waves in it — sometimes 
little waves that lapped gently on the shore 
and bore in beautiful shells and jewelled sea 
weed. But more often its rhythm was as 
mighty as ocean waves that tossed ships. 

“Then the wondering stranger, hearing the 
beauty of the song, vanished. Caedmon 
awoke from his sleep, and he remembered all 
that he had sung and the vision that had come 
to him. And he was glad. He arose and 
went to the Abbess Hild to tell her what had 
happened to him, the least of her servants.” 

“What happened to Finan?” asked Dicfcy. 

Master Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled. “He 
went with him.” 

“Was that the angel, that man?” asked 
Mary. 

“Yea. And in the presence of many wise 
men did Hild bid Caedmon tell his dream and 



An angel had visited Caedmon 













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THE BRAVE COWHERD 153 

sing his verses. And he did as he was told, and 
it was plain to all that an angel had visited 
Caedmon. The Abbess Hild took him into 
the monastery and she ordered that everything 
be done for him. And Caedmon became the 
first of English poets. Even as Christ was 
born in a manger in Bethlehem, so was Eng- 
lish poetry born some few hundred years ago 
in a cattle fold in a town which was called 
Streoneshalh, which means ‘Bay of the 
Beacon.’ ” 

Paul heard Ferris say, “If it’s the twentieth 
century, then that must have been some fifteen 
hundred years ago.” 

Master Geoffrey was looking in a puzzled 
way at Ferris. “Come, lad, thou art so 
sleepy thou dost not know what thou art say- 
ing. Early to bed and to-morrow on our 
journey to Caerwent!” 

“And the ponies to ride,” said Dicky joy- 
fully. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


DREAM PONIES 

44 \ RE they dream ponies?” Paul found he 
l\. was asking himself. 

They had just been led out of the shed in 
which they had been stabled overnight. 
There were four grooms for the eight ponies 
and six horses. 

As the children came out of the Inn door 
into the courtyard, they stood still and just 
looked. There was a roan pony with a beau- 
tiful curving neck and soft glossy mane and 
forelock. This was Belle’s pony. There was 
a white pony with a heavily braided mane, 
wide pink nostrils and large gentle eyes. 
This was Alice’s pony. There was a black 
pony with slender pastern joints and polished 
hoofs. This was Paul’s. Two stout little 
piebald ponies had immensely bushy tails and 
soft thick noses and strong heavy legs. 
These ponies were for Dicky and Mary. 

154 


DREAM PONIES 


155 


There was a handsome little chestnut that 
pawed the ground and looked skittish and 
restive. This was Douglas’s pony. 

“Aye,” said Master Geoffrey, a twinkle in 
his eye, as Douglas vaulted into the saddle, 
“thou wilt have enough to keep thee busy with 
this pony.” 

And sure enough the pony began side-step- 
ping all over the courtyard the way the chil- 
dren had seen the trained horses do at the 
circus. 

There were two little sorrel ponies — they 
might have been twins— with gentle little 
faces and delicate, forward pricking little 
ears. These were for Janet and Ferris. The 
children had never seen such wonderful 
bridles studded with silver and hung with silk 
tassels. They scarcely noticed the powerful 
horses which were for Master Geoffrey, 
David and the grooms. 

Already they were eagerly mounting their 
own ponies. The grooms were running to 
and fro and the Inn servants were hurrying 
about. Such a clatter and such shouting! 

Above it all the head groom could be heard 
repeating in a loud voice for the benefit of the 


156 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

other grooms words which seemed to be some 
sort of verses: 

“Purse, dagger, cloak, night-cap, kerchief, shoeing-horn, 
budget and shoes. 

Spear, male, hood, halter, saddle cloth, spurs, hat, with 
thy horse-comb. 

Bow, arrows, sword, buckler, horn, leash, gloves, string 
and thy bracer. 

“What’s all that about?” asked Alice. 

“The groom, my child,” answered Master 
Geoffrey, “is but reminding them not to for- 
get their gear.” 

Still it went on as if the groom enjoyed 
repeating the verses : 

“Pen, paper, ink, parchment, red wax, pumice, books, 
thou remember. 

Pen knife, comb, thimble, needle, thread, point, lest that 
thy girth break. 

Bodkin, knife, shoemaker’s thread, give thy horse meat, 
see he be shoed well. 

Make merry, sing and thou can; take heed to thy gear, 
that thou lose none.” 

During these last words the groom had been 
jumping about at a great rate, looking into 
saddle bags, rushing into the stable, rushing 


DREAM PONIES 


157 


out. Now they were off, the grooms ahead 
and gaily singing; the children two and two 
behind the grooms and Master Geoffrey and 
David bringing up the rear. 

On the journey they passed some wayfaring 
priests who walked without either boots or 
socks, barefooted. 

“Holy men are these,’’ said Master Geoffrey, 
“for they walk unshod.” 

They passed a blind man on the road, led by 
a hound, a big lean, flop-eared dog. Warm- 
hearted little Mary did not know whether to 
be more sorry for the blind stumbling man or 
for the lean hungry dog. She begged for a 
penny to give the man. And Master Geof- 
frey gave each a penny to give him. They 
left the poor fellow smiling almost happily — 
it was a long time since he had felt so many 
pennies. And what were eight pennies then 
or sixteen cents — would amount to about ten 
times that now or one dollar and sixty cents. 

“ ’Tis much, little ones, to give a blind 
man,” said Master Geoffrey. 

“I don’t think you can do too much for a 
man that’s blind,” answered Mary, “ ’cause 
he’s lost so much.” 


158 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

Paul looked puzzled. “I can’t say it, sir, 
but wouldn’t it mean a good deal to him to feel 
we really cared about his troubles?” 

“Yea, it might be.” 

Suddenly they came to a pit right in the 
middle of the highway. The horses and 
ponies shied and went around the hole which 
was about ten feet long, eight feet deep, eight 
feet wide and almost full of water. 

“Golly,” said Douglas trying to rein in his 
prancing pony, “that was a close shave!” 

“Whoever heard of such a thing as digging 
a hole right in the road!” exclaimed Belle in 
disgust. 

“ ’Twas a Chepstow miller dug that!” said 
one of the grooms. 

“And they let him?” Belle spoke with sur- 
prise. 

“Aye, mistress, ’twas the only place where 
he could get the particular clay he had need 
of.” 

“I’d let him do without his old clay,” said 
Belle. 

“S’pose it had been night and we hadn’t seen 
the hole?” said Dicky. 

“Aye, little master. Last week was a trav- 


DREAM PONIES 


159 

eliing glove merchant on his way from Caer- 
leon to Chepstow drowned in this hole.” 

“And they let that miller go?” asked Paul. 

“Yea, but the jury decreed that from hence- 
forth no man dig clay upon the highway be- 
tween Caerleon and Chepstow upon pain of a 
fine.” 

“They let him down easy,” growled Doug- 
las, whose pony was still dancing on two legs 
chiefly. 

“What I’d just like to know,” Paul heard 
Dicky say to Master Geoffrey, “is what would 
have happened if an automobile going full 
speed had struck that hole?” 

“Gee,” exclaimed Douglas, “I wonder, 
too !” 

■But it was useless to try to explain to Mas- 
ter Geoffrey what an automobile was. 

He looked at the children as if they were 
telling fables and all he said was, “Aye, I have 
heard of Teilo the Flying Man but not of 
this.” 

When the children begged him to tell them 
about Teilo the Flying Man he said he would 
some other time. 

It was a wonderful ride they had from 


160 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


Chepstow to Caerwent, often within sight of 
the broad reaches of the River Severn, often 
fording turbulent little streams rushing down 
to the bigger river, often looking back towards 
the black forested spaces of Went Wood and 
almost all the time over-looking the Great 
Roman dyke that kept the sea from overflow- 
ing the Caldicott level, and always passing the 
little round huts with their steeply thatched 
conical roofs. 

“Please, sir,” begged Mary, “can’t we go 
inside these huts?” 

“Nay, little one,” said Master Geoffrey, 
“not these. But outside Caerleon near Gold 
Cliff dwells an old servant of mine. Into his 
will we go on the morrow.” 

What seemed most wonderful to Paul was 
that now they were actually riding over 
ground on which King Arthur and his knights 
of the Round Table had ridden, too. He was 
repeating to himself some lines from Tenny- 
son: 

“I made them lay their hands in mine and swear 
To reverence the King, as if he were 
Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 


DREAM PONIES 


161 

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 

To lead sweet lives of purest chastity, 

To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 

And worship her by years of noble deeds, 

Until they won her.” 

Except for the fact that his black pony gave 
him no chance, Paul wanted to rub his eyes. 
Where was he, actually here just outside of 
Caerwent and on the road to Caerleon where 
Arthur held his court, or at the Fessenden 
School listening to the Scout Master repeating 
to the Boy Scouts those noble lines from Ten- 
nyson? 

He heard Master Geoffrey and David talk- 
ing together. 

“Yea,” said Master Geoffrey, “Caerwent 
did the Romans call Venta Silurum. ’Twas 
an important Roman town which is now not 
much more than a village. The Saxons burnt 
it in the last quarter of the Sixth Century, 
some six hundred years ago.” 

Paul did not need to pinch himself. So it 
really was the twelfth century and not the 
twentieth ! 

“ ’Tis now not much more than a small town 


162 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


but here shall we see villas in which the Ro- 
mans lived. And here is a college which 
Ynyr, a Welsh prince of Gwent, founded.” 

Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled like stars on a 
frosty night. The children knew there was a 
story to tell about the college at Caerwent and 
begged him to tell it. 

But all he replied was, “Later, my little 
ones, if thou art good!” 

“Please, sir,” said Alice, “that means there 
are two stories to tell.” 

“Yes, Teilo the Flying Man,” piped Dicky. 

“And some story about the college in Caer- 
went,” said Paul. 


CHAPTER XIX 


A SAVAGE JOKE 

cried Mary, “look! They’re chas- 

v-/ ing that poor little dog!” 

Sure enough there was a little dog running 
very hard and running just as hard after it, a 
big knife in his hand, was their Caerwent Inn 
cook. 

Little Janet took one look and burst into 
tears. “I know he’s going to kill it!” she 
cried. 

“Look at that knife!” said Dicky, his heart 
in his throat. 

Paul heard Mary say, “He shan’t touch that 
little dog. He can kill me first.” 

And before any one knew what she had 
done, she was off after the cook. That did not 
make matters any better, for Alice was sure 
now that Mary would be killed. Then Doug- 
las took one look and was after Mary. 

Mary’s sturdy little legs were simply flying 
163 


164 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

and soon overtook the fat Welsh cook. And 
then Douglas overtook her. And there she 
stood in front of the cook, holding onto his 
funny apron while he brandished the knife 
and made signs after the disappearing dog. 

Paul heard Dicky say, “I don’t believe he’s 
going to touch Mary.” 

They heard Douglas laugh and saw him 
turn to come back. Then Mary and the Cook 
came up to them. 

“It’s the turnspit,” said Mary, proudly. 

“The what ?” asked Belle. 

“The turnspit,” explained Mary, “and the 
Cook was chasing him for dinner.” 

“Oh, dear,” thought Dicky, “then he was 
going to kill that little dog!” 

The big cook, still looking excited, bran- 
dished his immense knife. “There is nothing 
busier and wittier than that turnspit.” 

“He saw him coming and that made the lit- 
tle dog run away,” explained Mary. 

“Well, I should think so!” thought Alice. 
“I’d run, too, if I saw that knife.” 

“The Cook had forgotten and let the little 
dog see him approach the larder. Now he’s 
run away,” said Mary. 


A SAVAGE JOKE 165 

“Now he is gone,” said the Cook, “and he 
will not return till he hungers for his marrow- 
bones.” 

“Yes,” said Mary, “and there won’t be any 
roast for dinner.” 

“Cricky!” exclaimed Dicky, “I don’t want 
to eat that little dog.” 

" Eat the dog!” cried Mary in horror. “Do 
you suppose I’d eat a dog? Why a dog is his 
master’s best friend.” 

“Then what’s all this about roasting?” asked 
Belle. 

“Why he turns the dog wheel which turns 
the spit on which the meat roasts before that 
big open fire in the Inn room.” 

“Aye, there’ll be no basting and no dripping 
this day.” And the fat Cook turned and bran- 
dished his awful knife in the direction in 
which the little dog had fled. 

“You see the Cook was careless, didn’t know 
the little turnspit was there. Then the dog- 
gie saw him go to the larder for a joint and 
the dog ran.” 

“Aye, a witty beast, a witty worthless 
beast!” growled the Cook going towards the 
Inn. 


1 66 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


The children followed him into the Inn. 
There sat Master Geoffrey and David before 
the fire resting and waiting for dinner. The 
children told him the little turnspit had run 
away, how frightened they had been and they 
guessed there would be only cold roast meat 
that day for dinner. 

Then Alice begged for a story. 

“By my soul,” said Master Geoffrey, his 
eyes twinkling, “thou art a greedy one!” 

“Yes, please,” begged Janet. 

“That story about the college here at Caer^ 
went,” said Paul. 

“Aye, well ’tis short,” agreed Master Geof- 
frey. 

He wanted to be quiet, for the journey on 
horseback seemed to have tired him. But the 
children and their ponies were as fresh as if 
they had not travelled over miles of rough 
road the day before. Paul looked at Master 
Geoffrey. He seemed so old to-day. But in 
some way that made him seem more than ever 
real. The feeling Paul often had that this 
was a dream drew further away. 

“There was a good king, Ynyr, a prince of 
Lower Gwent, who ruled here before the 


A SAVAGE JOKE 167 

Saxons destroyed the Roman Gwent by fire. 
That destruction was towards the close of the 
sixth century. The town was then called 
Venta Silurum.” 

“Were they real Romans like Caesar?” 
asked Ferris. 

“Aye, little one, as real as thou art a real 
English child.” 

“I’m not,” said Ferris, “I’m an American.” 

“Amerigo?” asked Master Geoffrey. 
“Pray, what is that? Hast thou, perchance, a 
Spanish father?” 

There was no use trying to explain. Mas- 
ter Geoffrey could not understand. He acted 
as if he thought they were trying to tease him 
or tell him a fairy tale. 

“You see,” said Paul later to Ferris, “it’s 
the twelfth century and nobody ever heard of 
America till Columbus discovered it at the 
close of the fifteenth century.” 

Geoffrey’s eyes twinkled. “Ynyr’s wife was 
Madrun, the granddaughter of Vortigern. 
They founded the college at Caerwent. This 
college they placed under the care of a learned 
Irish professor whose name was Tathan. In 
Gwent Loog nearby ruled another king, a vio- 


168 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


lent man, who was a thief and who did evil 
deeds.” 

“I know he’s going to do something to the 
wise Tathan,” said Alice. 

“Aye,” answered Geoffrey, “he would have 
done so but the learning of wise men is not 
always in books. The subjects of this violent 
King Gwynllyw stole the cow which belonged 
to the principal of Caerwent.” 

“He couldn’t have been much of a King,” 
growled Douglas, “to want his subjects to steal 
cows 1” 

“Nay,” said Geoffrey drily, “the cows Kings 
have stolen are all too often bigger than 
Tathan’s! The wise man learned who had 
stolen the cow and went after them.” 

“He wasn’t any coward,” said Dicky. 

“Nay, Tathan was brave. King Gwynllyw 
heard he was coming to beg for his cow. So 
he had a great cauldron filled with boiling 
water and set on the floor.” 

“Was he going to boil him alive?” asked 
Janet. 

“Wait, little one! Over this cauldron of 
boiling water were rushes placed, then a cloth 
spread over the whole. When Tathan en- 


A SAVAGE JOKE 169 

tered, the King waved his hand politely 
towards the cauldron and invited the Princi- 
pal to take a seat.” 

“And did he?” asked Douglas, forgetting to 
growl. 

“Aye, he did. But he was wary and he 
placed himself carefully on the rim of the 
cauldron, thereby spoiling the King’s savage 
jest and escaping tumbling in and being 
scalded.” 

“I think a joke like that is wicked,” said 
Belle. 

“Aye, ’tis savage. But I have seen lads 
play jokes as cruel.” 

“What makes boys and men so cruel, please, 
Master Geoffrey?” asked Alice. 

Master Geoffrey shook his head. “That I 
cannot answer. They are that way and much 
and always do they need the gentleness of 
women.” 

In the house the Inn servants were moving 
about rapidly, preparing the meat, setting the 
forms and stools in the hall, making ready 
with tables, cloths and towels. Then they 
called the guests together. Before they sat 
down all washed their hands. Then the chil- 


170 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


dren were set in their place and servants at a 
table by themselves. Knives, spoons and salt 
were set on the table; then bread and drink 
and different dishes, — the household servants 
busily helping with everything. Every one 
talked merrily together. 

Belle said afterwards, “Why, it was just as 
gay as one of Aunt Jan’s dinner parties!” 

The guests were made glad with lutes and 
harps. Towards the end of the meal fruit 
and spices were served. Then the table cloths 
and the remnants were taken away, the guests 
washed and wiped their hands again. After 
this Master Geoffrey said grace and the guests 
departed. 

“We wash our hands often enough!” 
growled Douglas. 

“Aye, young master,” replied Geoffrey, 
looking at Douglas’s hands which were sel- 
dom as clean as they might be, “too clean can 
the hands not be, for by cleanliness do we 
avoid sickness and give pleasure to those who 
live with us.” 


CHAPTER XX 


BREAD 

44 T NEVER saw so much bread eaten in 

X my life!” exclaimed Belle. 

“Or so much beer taken!” said Paul. 

“Master Geoffrey says that at the monas- 
teries and places of that sort we passed,” ex- 
plained Alice, “the amount allowed for each 
monk is a gallon a day.” 

“Gracious goodness,” said Mary, “think of 
good men being so wicked!” 

“Well,” said Paul, “I’m glad we live in 
days when men can’t drink like that!” 

Then he rubbed his eyes: when were they 
living anyhow? He caught sight of one of 
the Inn trestle tables from which servants 
were clearing away the food. On it was an 
immense loaf of bread. 

“And they eat just pounds and pounds of 
bread!” exclaimed Janet. 

171 


172 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Never saw so much bread eaten in my 
life!” said Ferris. 

“Bread,” said Master Geoffrey coming into 
the room, “aye of bread is there much eaten. 
But many have not much else in food except 
bread and beer.” 

“How much would a man eat in a day?” 
asked Belle. 

“Eight pounds, little mistress, had he 
nought other food.” 

“Eight pounds — why,” said Belle, “that 
would be eight of our big loaves.” 

“The men of England are hearty eaters!” 
answered Master Geoffrey. He looked at the 
loaf. “It is beautiful, that loaf of bread!” 

“I think bread is the beautifullest food in 
the world,” said Janet. 

“Aye, little one. Come sit here and I will 
tell thee a story hath bread in it.” 

“A story! A story!” cried the children 
gathering around him by the fireplace from 
which the dog wheel had been set aside. Be- 
fore the fire lay the little turnspit dog. He 
had come back, for he knew just as well as 
any one else that the dinner hour was long 
past and no dog wheel could make him work 


BREAD 


173 


until another day. Mary had watched him 
creep in softly over the rushes on the floor, 
look about, sigh and lie down by the fire. 
She had seen a good-hearted servant throw 
him a large piece of bread and meat which the 
little turnspit devoured and then fell sound 
asleep. Now the children gathered about the 
great fireplace, up the chimney of which they 
could see the dim evening light and curling 
smoke. The little turnspit’s legs twitched as 
if he fled from capture by a whole legion of 
dog wheels. 

“Now listen well, my children!” 

Mary gave a big sigh of delight. The 
story was beginning. 

“In the same century in which Caedmon, 
the brave cowherd, lived and died, there lived 
another brave and good man. He was not a 
great poet but he was a great wanderer. And 
like Caedmon he was a shepherd, not of cattle 
but of sheep.” 

“Did he live on a rock by the sea?” asked 
Mary. 

“Nay, little one, Cuthbert, for that was his 
name, lived in a little valley ’tween England 
and Scotland.” 


174 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“I know about Cuthbert,” Paul heard him- 
self saying. “Aunt Jan said he was a saintly 
hero.” 

“She did say rightly. There in the open, 
shepherding the sheep of many masters, did 
Cuthbert live night and day.” 

“Were there wolves?” asked Dicky. 

“Aye, little Master, big grey wolves.” 

“Timber wolves?” asked Douglas. 

“What is that, — timber wolves?” inquired 
Master Geoffrey. 

Douglas explained. Yes, Master Geoffrey 
said, they came down from the forests in the 
hills. 

“There was not among the lads of that time 
a boy more active, more daring than Cuth- 
bert,” continued Geoffrey. “He could walk 
on his hands, turn somersaults, fight boldly, 
and become a victor in almost every race. 
There was no other boy so active but that 
Cuthbert was better at games and sports. 
And when all the others were tired then 
would he ask whether there was not some one 
who could go on playing.” 

“He was a good one,” said Douglas, who 
was listening to every word. 


BREAD 


175 


“Then suddenly came a swelling on his 
knee. The little lad could play no longer. 
He had to be carried in and out, up and down 
by attendants.” 

“And he couldn’t keep his sheep any 
longer?” asked Mary. 

“Nay, little one, he could do nothing.” 

“Did the wolves get the sheep?” asked 
Dicky. 

“They got another shepherd,” answered 
Master Geoffrey. “Then one day a horse- 
man, clad in white garments and riding a 
horse of great beauty appeared before the sick 
boy and cured his knee.” 

“And did he walk again?” asked Alice. 

“Aye, Cuthbert was now able to walk about 
once more. But never again did he play the 
games he used to play.” 

“Oh, say, that was a shame!” growled 
Douglas. “I thought he was going to be 
something.” 

“Aye, little master, and so was he. Not far 
from where Cuthbert dwelt was the monastery 
of Tiningham, by the mouth of the river Tyne. 
Some of the monks were bringing down on 
rafts wood which they had spent a long time 


176 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


felling and sawing up. They were almost op- 
posite the monastery and were just about to 
draw the wood to the shore, when a great wind 
came up from the west and drove the rafts out 
towards the sea. There were five of them, 
and so quickly did they drift away that it was 
not more than a few minutes before they be- 
gan to look in the distance as small as five lit- 
tle birds. Those upon the rafts were in much 
danger of losing their lives. Those in the 
monastery came out and prayed upon the 
shore for them. But the five rafts that now 
looked like the tiniest of birds, went on drift- 
ing out to sea. And the people, which had 
been heathen very lately, began to jest at the 
monks, because their prayers were in vain.” 

“And, oh dear!” cried Mary, “I suppose all 
those wood-cutter monks were drowned!” 

“ ‘Friends,’ said Cuthbert, ‘ye do wrong to 
speak evil of those ye see hurried away to 
death. Would it not be better to pray for 
their safety?’ ” 

“Did they?” asked Dicky. 

“ ‘Nay,’ shouted the people angrily, ‘they 
took away our old worship, and ye can see 
that nothing comes of the new.’ 


BREAD 


177 


“Thereupon this young Cuthbert began to 
pray, bowing his head to the ground. And 
the winds were turned around and brought 
the rafts in safety to the shore of the monas- 
tery.” 

“How did they do that?” asked Douglas. 

“Like David, this boy Cuthbert was very 
near to God. One night time, while keeping 
the sheep of his masters did he see angels de- 
scending from heaven. Cuthbert was on a 
mountain with other shepherds, and keeping 
not only his sheep, but also the vigil of prayer, 
when a light streamed down from heaven, and 
broke the thick darkness of the night. Then 
did Cuthbert make up his mind to serve God 
in all ways. 

“One day when he was not quite fifteen 
years old he was on a journey on horseback.” 

“Why he wasn’t much older than Paul,” 
said Ferris, whose hero was always Paul. 

“He turned aside to the farm-stead which 
he saw at some distance, and entered the house 
of a very good dame. He wanted to rest him- 
self. But even more he wanted to get food 
for his horse. The woman urged him to let 
her make ready some dinner for him. But 


178 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

Cuthbert would not eat, for it was a fast day. 

“ ‘Consider,’ said the woman, ‘that on thy 
journey thou wilt find no village nor habita- 
tion of man ; for indeed a long journey is be- 
fore thee, nor canst thou possibly accomplish 
it before sunset. Wherefore, I beg thee to 
take some food before setting out, lest thou 
be obliged to fast all day, or perhaps even 
until the morrow.’ ” 

“Did he?” asked Paul. 

“Nay, for Cuthbert broke no promises. 
His thoughts were as strong and brave as his 
body. N ight came on. He saw that he could 
not complete his journey. There was no 
house anywhere in which to take shelter. As 
he went on, however, he saw some shepherds’ 
huts which had been roughly thrown together 
in the summer. He entered one of these to 
pass the night there, and tied his horse to the 
wall. Then did he set before the horse a 
bundle of hay to eat. Suddenly Cuthbert no- 
ticed that his horse was raising his head and 
pulling at the thatching of the hut. As the 
horse drew the thatch down, there fell out, 
also a folded napkin. In the napkin was 
wrapped the half of a loaf of bread yet warm 


BREAD 


179 

and a piece of meat — enough for Cuthbert’s 
supper.” 

“It must have been wonderful,” said Mary, 
whose appetite was always good, “to find a 
beautiful loaf of warm bread when you were 
so hungry!” 

“Aye, little one, and as I said in food there 
is nought more beautiful than bread.” 

“Is that all there is to that old story?” asked 
Douglas, rudely. 

“Nay, little master, if thou dost wish more, 
there is more.” 

“Please, sir,” said Alice, “tell more.” 

“Aye, well, then followed by his squire, 
and with his lance in hand, this youthful shep- 
herd-warrior, but fifteen years old, appeared 
before the gates of the monastery of Melrose. 
For Cuthbert had decided to serve God in a 
religious life rather than upon the battle 
field. 

“There was not a village so far away, or a 
mountain so steep, or a cottage so stricken 
with famine and cold, but that the boy Cuth- 
bert, strong and energetic, visited it. Often 
did he travel on horseback, but there were 
places so rough and wild they were not to be 


180 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


reached thus. These places along the coast 
he visited in a boat. Cuthbert thought noth- 
ing of hunger and thirst and cold. From the 
Solway to the Forth he covered Scotland with 
his pilgrimages. This, my children, was in 
the seventh century — a long time ago, yet 
stories are still told there of the wonderful 
work Cuthbert did.” 

“Are good men always brave?” asked Paul. 

“That can I not answer,” replied Geoffrey, 
“but I have seen that those who are brave in 
thought have respect for their bodies. So at 
least was this Cuthbert. While he was young 
in the life of the monastery, it was Cuthbert’s 
good fortune to entertain an angel unawares. 
At the monastery, Cuthbert, so pleasant and 
winning were his manners, was made guest- 
master.” 

“I guess you’d better think about him, 
Doug,” said Belle, who had suffered from her 
brother’s rudeness. 

“Going out one morning from the inner 
buildings of the monastery to the guest 
chamber, there did he find a young man 
seated. He welcomed him with the usual 
forms of kindness, gave him water to wash his 


BREAD 


181 


hands, himselt bathed his feet, wiping them 
with a towel and warming them. He begged 
the young man not to go forward on his jour- 
ney until the third hour, when he might have 
breakfast. He thought the stranger must 
have been wearied by the night journey and 
by the snow. But the stranger was very un- 
willing to stay until Cuthbert urged him in 
the Divine Name. Immediately after the 
prayers of tierce — or the third hour — were 
said, Cuthbert laid the table and offered the 
stranger food. 

“ ‘Refresh thyself, master, until I return 
with some new bread, for I expect it is ready 
baked by this time.’ 

“But when he returned the guest whom he 
had left at the table was gone. Although a 
fresh snow-fall had covered the ground and 
Cuthbert looked for his foot-prints, none were 
to be found. On entering the room again, 
there came to him a very sweet odor, and he 
saw lying beside him three loaves of bread, 
warm and of unwonted whiteness and beauty. 

“ ‘Lo,’ said Cuthbert, ‘this was an angel of 
God who came to feed and not to be fed. 
These are such loaves as the earth cannot pro- 


1 82 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


duce, for they surpass lilies in whiteness, roses 
in smell, and honey in flavor.” 

“I think it’s beautiful that the angel left the 
bread,” said Janet. “The angel must have 
loved him very much to leave three loaves.” 

“By all human beings and creatures was 
Cuthbert beloved. He spent usually the 
greater part of the night in prayer. One 
night one of the brothers of the monastery fol- 
lowed him to find out where he went when he 
left the monastery. St. Cuthbert went out to 
the shore and entered the cold waters of the 
sea till it was up to his arms and neck. And 
there in praises, with the sound of the waves in 
his ears, he spent the night. When dawn was 
drawing near he came out of the water and fin- 
ished his prayer upon the shore. While he 
was doing this, two seals came from out of the 
depths of the sea, warmed his feet with their 
breath and dried them with their hair.” 

“Is that, please, sir,” asked Alice, “a fairy 
story?” 

“Nay, little one, it is a tale of love and of 
the life of a saint. When Cuthbert’s feet 
were warm and dry, he stood up and blessed 
the seals and sent them back into the sea, 


BREAD 183 

wherein these humble creatures swam about 
praising God.” 

“Do all things, even seals, praise God?” 
asked Mary. 

“Aye, little one, all things.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE FLYING MAN 

“TTyTHAT would Aunt Jan think of this!” 

V V Paul heard Janet call to Belle, look- 
ing very much disgusted. 

They were on their way to Caerleon, their 
ponies as fresh as if there had been no long 
journey two days before. Janet held some- 
thing between her right forefinger and thumb 
while with her left hand she reined in her 
pony. 

“It’s the tenth I’ve caught since we left 
Caerwent and I’m just bitten to pieces.” 

“The flea is a little worm,” said one of the 
grooms, “but he grieveth man most.” 

“It seemed to me last night,” added Belle, 
“that they hopped around as thick as sand 
fleas.” 

David explained that they bred in the 
thatch and in the rushes on the floors and there 
was scarcely a house free from them. 

“And he himself escapeth peril with leap- 

184 


THE FLYING MAN 


185 

ing and not with running,” added the groom. 

“Well that one Janet had didn’t,” said 
Dicky. 

“They wax slow in cold time,” David said, 
“but summer time they wax alert and swift.” 

“Aye,” added Master Geoffrey, the odd 
twinkle in his bright eyes, “they spare not 
kings.” 

“Who is king now?” asked Ferris feeling 
rather proud that he was intelligent enough to 
ask this question. 

But Master Geoffrey looked at him as if 
he thought him stupid to have to ask. 

“Who is thy King, lad! Thou dost not 
mean who is Henry II who now rules, thou 
meanest rather who were the kings before 
him. There were Stephen and Henry I and 
William II and William the Conqueror. 
But we are going towards a city where lived a 
king greater than any of these.” 

“Who was that?” asked Ferris. 

“King Arthur who held court at Caerleon.” 

“And are we really going to see King Ar- 
thur?” cried Dicky wildly excited. 

“Nay, little one, dead hath he and his 
Queen Guenevere been this many a year. 


186 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


But even now is King Henry intending a visit 
to Glastonbury Abbey where lie the two side 
by side under a broad stone in the trunk of a 
tree, the skull of Arthur pierced with many 
wounds, the Queen’s hair, it may be, still the 
colour of gold.” 

“And did they really live at Caerleon 
once?” 

“Aye, once but now are they seen dimly, as 
in a mist, — like ghost trees walking. There 
still at Ultra Pontem — the side of the bridge 
we must cross into Caerleon — is a burial place 
of the Romans.” 

“Then all the Romans did not go back to 
Italy in the fifth century?” asked little Janet. 

“Nay, child, how could that be possible? 
The Romans had been in Britain since before 
Christ. For generation after generation 
many were buried here. At Caerleon may be 
seen some of the urns in which their ashes 
were buried.” 

“Can we see pictures of those Romans?” 
asked Mary. 

“Of a kind, in relief on those urns. But 
much hath been broken and burned every- 
where, for Britain hath been in truth the pos- 


THE FLYING MAN 187 

session of Romans, Angles and Saxons, Danes 
and the Normans.” 

“Are men always fighting?” asked little 
Mary, troubled. 

“Yea, so it would seem.” 

“Women would not make wars,” said 
Mary. 

“I think,” said Paul, looking at Mary 
thoughtfully, as she jogged along on her little 
fat pony, “that women are more loving and 
more gentle.” 

“Here in Caerleon,” continued Geoffrey, 
“is still much of Roman grandeur to be seen, 
great palaces with bits of the gilded roofs 
clinging to them, marvellous towers, hot 
baths, temples, theatres, all within fine walls, 
aqueducts, and stoves so built that they send 
heat through small pipes that pass up side 
walls.” 

“Why, that’s like our old-fashioned registers 
or modern radiators,” said Douglas, becom- 
ing interested at once. “I didn’t know those 
old Romans had so much sense!” 

After this, although Douglas’s pony seldom 
was on more than two feet at once, he listened 
carefully. 


1 88 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“Roman coins have been found there which 
begin with Nero’s reign in A. D. 37. And 
some coins have been found of a date before 
the Christian Era.” 

It seemed such a long time ago to the chil- 
dren, — this time of the Romans. They rode 
on slowly, saying little for a while. In the 
distance they saw a hill shining and rising out 
of the levels of Caldicott. 

“Yonder is Gold Cliff,” said Geoffrey, 
“where was found the tablet saying that the 
cohort of the centurion Statorious had thrown 
up some miles of the dyke.” 

To Paul somehow these great stretches of 
time seemed like a dream within a dream. 
He and Belle were riding along quietly to- 
gether. Douglas had dropped behind to see 
whether he could pry any more facts about the 
heating systems of the Roman palaces and 
houses out of David. 

“Is the Cliff of gold?” asked little Janet. 

“Not really, child, though it doth shine like 
gold. And there on the River Usk is situated 
a great salmon fishery. On the morrow we 
will go thither.” 


THE FLYING MAN 189 

“Bigger than the one at Chepstow?” asked 
Dicky. 

“Larger than any on this coast. And there 
did Teilo the Flying Man make his flight.” 

“Were there aeroplanes then?” exclaimed 
Douglas. 

His eyes fairly popped out of his head with 
excitement. Aeroplanes were better than hot 
air or hot water pipes any day! 

“Aeroplanes, young master? Pray what is 
that?” 

It was almost useless to try to explain to 
Master Geoffrey. Both Paul and Douglas 
made the effort but he only looked at the chil- 
dren very soberly and murmured something 
about the Green Children again. 

“Who were those old Green Children any- 
how?” whispered Alice to Mary. 

“I don’t know,” answered Mary, “but Mas- 
ter Geoffrey seems to think we’re somebody we 
aren’t at all.” 

Geoffrey was continuing, even if with a 
somewhat stern eye on Douglas. 

“Aye! ’twas in the year when William the 
Conqueror took this country — the year 1066, 


I 9 0 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

Seven days before May a star with a bright 
blazing crest was seen all the world over and 
was seen for seven days continually.” 

“I guess that was a comet,” said Paul. 

“Then did Teilo, who was a monk, greet 
the star in this manner, ‘Thou art come, now 
thou art come mourning and sorrow thou dost 
bring to well many mothers. It was long ago 
that I first saw thee and now will I fly unto 
thee.’ So did this man of letters feather his 
feet and hands, for he would fly like Dedalus 
and the star. So stood he on the top of Gold 
Cliff, his feet and his hands feathered like a 
great bird. And he took the wind in its great 
strength and leaped. After flying the space 
of a furlong he fell into the sea and was 
drowned.” 

“Cricky,” said Douglas, “I guess that was 
the first man ever tried to fly!” 

“I bet he felt queerer than the Wright 
brothers did,” piped little Dicky. 

“Think,” said Paul, “1066, almost two 
thousand years ago and men trying even then 
to fly!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE BOY MERLIN 

T HAT night in the Caerleon Inn before 
the fire Master Geoffrey told them a 
story of another hill, Dinas Emrys, near a lit- 
tle village called Beddgelert in North Wales. 
The little village is set down in the midst of 
mountains like a lump of sugar in the bottom 
of a deep cup. And outside this little village 
is the hill called Dinas Emrys. 

Geoffrey looked northward out of the win- 
dow by the fireplace. “What dost thou think 
I see? I see the magician, Merlin, the youth 
who had never a father. And this lad is quar- 
reling with another lad in Carnarvon, a Welsh 
city thirteen miles from the little village of 
Beddgelert.” 

“Have you ever been there?” asked Paul. 
“Aye, lad, and much do I love that little vil- 
lage. Now Vortigern had been attempting 
to build a tower on Dinas Emrys. But what- 


1 92 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


ever the workmen did one day that was swal- 
lowed up on the following. 

“Then some wise men said to Vortigern, 
‘Thou must find a youth who has never had a 
father. Thou must sacrifice him and sprinkle 
the foundations with his blood.’ 

“So Vortigern sent men to find a boy who 
had never had a father and who should be 
brought him that they might kill him. When 
Vortigern’s messenger reached Carnarvon, 
thirteen miles away from Beddgelert, and the 
hill Dinas Emrys, they found two boys play- 
ing games and quarreling about their parent- 
age. And one of them, Dabutius, was accus- 
ing the other, Merlin, of having no father. 
They took him to Vortigern. 

“And Vortigern said, ‘My magicians told 
me to seek out a lad who had no father, with 
whose blood the foundations of my building 
are to be sprinkled to make it stand.’ 

“ ‘Order thy magicians,’ answered Merlin, 
‘to come before me and I will convict them of 
a lie.’ 

“It is a terrible thing to be convicted of a 
lie. Of course the magicians did not wish to 
come. But King Vortigern made them come 


THE BOY MERLIN 


193 


and ordered them to sit down before Merlin. 

“Merlin spoke to them after this manner: 
‘Because ye are ignorant what it is that hin- 
ders the foundations of the tower, ye have told 
the king to kill me and to cement the stones 
with my blood. But tell me now, what is 
there under the foundations that will not suf- 
fer it to stand?’ 

“To this they gave no answer, for they were 
frightened. 

“Then said Merlin, T entreat the King 
would command his workmen to dig into the 
ground, and he will find a pond which causes 
the foundations to sink.’ 

“This the king had done and a pond was 
found there. 

“Then said Merlin to the King’s magicians, 
‘Tell me, ye false men, what is there under the 
pond?’ 

“But they were afraid to answer. 

“Merlin turned to King Vortigern and said, 
‘Command the pond to be drained, and at the 
bottom ye will see two hollow stones and in 
them are two dragons asleep.’ ” 

Dicky’s face grew bright. Here was an- 
other wonderful dragon story. 


194 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“The king had the pond drained and he 
found all just as Merlin said it would be. 
And as the king sat on the edge of the drained 
pond out came the two dragons, one red and 
one white, and approaching one another, they 
began to fight, blowing forth fire from their 
nostrils. At last the white dragon got the ad- 
vantage and made the red dragon fly to the 
other end of the drained pond. 

“When King Vortigern asker Merlin to ex- 
plain what this meant, Merlin burst into tears. 

“Then commanding his voice he spoke: 
Tn the days that are to come gold shall be 
squeezed from the lily and the nettle, and sil- 
ver shall flow from the hoofs of bellowing 
cattle. The teeth of wolves shall be blunted 
and the lion’s whelps shall be transformed into 
seafishes.’ 

“And unto this day nobody knows exactly 
what Merlin meant, nor do I, Geoffrey of 
Monmouth, know what he meant, although I 
have done much guessing.” 

“Is that one of the stories you saw through 
your golden window at Monmouth?” asked 
Belle. 

“Aye, that is one and very fond is Geoffrey 


THE BOY MERLIN 


i95 


of looking out of his window and seeing 
Merlin. Many a story I tell about him. 
There is the story of how Merlin helped to 
remove the stones of the Giants’ Dance from 
Ireland. Giants of old had brought them 
from the farthest coast of Africa. These are 
mystical stones and have value to heal and 
cure man. When these stones were found too 
heavy to be lifted by human hands, Merlin 
found a way nevertheless to lift them. Then 
these stones of the Giants’ Dance were carried 
across the sea and placed in England at a place 
called Stonehenge. And there is the tale of 
the 40,060 kings who never existed — which I 
grant is more almost than ever did exist.” 

“Forty thousand and sixty kings,” Paul 
heard his own voice saying dreamily. 

As his eyes closed he caught sight of the 
other children also nodding after the long 
day’s ride. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A PRIZE 

“T TERE is it that the noblest of all kings 

AX hath lived !” said Geoffrey, looking out 
of the windows of the Inn which was an old 
Roman palace turned into a hostelry. 

The children looked about them open- 
mouthed. Here were buildings such as they 
had never seen before. Paul was haunted by 
the memory of some pictures which hung on 
the walls of the Fessenden School. But this 
beautiful city of lofty gilded roofs, the River 
Usk on which were many ships, the meadows 
and groves, two churches that seemed to him 
more wonderful than any he had seen, and a 
college through whose doors students were 
coming and going all day. 

“Aye, here did the noblest of all kings, King 
Arthur, hold court!” 

Geoffrey shook his head as if he were very 
tempted. 

“Is it to be a story, please, sir?” asked Alice. 

196 


A PRIZE 


197 


“Nay, little one, this story which is to me 
dearest of all have I set down in my Chron- 
icle.” 

“But will you read it or tell it to us some 
day?” asked Mary. 

“Aye, little one, I will tell it thee some day 
— all of it, if thou dost not vanish in that green 
light that comes and goes about thee like the 
tossing shadows of some bright tree.” 

Several poor-looking students and a master 
from the college had paused under the win- 
dow where Paul sat and were talking. Paul 
could hear every word they said. He was 
surprised to see how altogether grown-up 
some of them were. 

“We boys beseech thee, O master, teach us 
to speak Latin rightly, for we are unlearned 
and speak it ill,” he heard one student say. 

“What will ye speak?” asked the Master. 

“What care we, so that we only speak 
rightly, not basely or in old wives’ fashion.” 

“Will ye be flogged in your learning?” 

“We love rather to be beaten for learning’s 
sake,” answered one of the students, “than to 
be ignorant. Thou art a kindly man who 
will not beat us unless we compel thee.” 


198 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


By this time Douglas was hanging out of 
the window, listening. “Gee,” he whispered, 
“think of beating those big fellows! Some 
job, Paul.” 

“Ssh!” said Paul. “They seem to take it 
for granted.” 

“Are these thy fellows and what know 
they?” asked the Master. 

One of the students answered, “Some of us 
are ploughers, others shepherds, some are cow- 
herds and some also are hunters, fishers, fowl- 
ers, some are merchants or cobblers or salters 
or bakers in this place.” 

“They’re democratic all right,” said Doug- 
las. 

The group under the window went on to- 
wards the college. 

“He’s going to teach ’em Latin,” said Doug- 
las. “Gee, I’m glad I don’t have to go with 
them!” 

Paul drew in his head. 

He heard Master Geoffrey saying, “For no- 
ble boys hath England never lacked.” 

Douglas’s head came in, too. He listened 
sullenly. He did not like to hear about noble 
boys ; it made him feel too uncomfortable. 


A PRIZE 


199 


“There was Bede who wrote the life of St. 
Cuthbert and who lived not long after Cuth- 
bert but in Northumbria as did Caedmon. 
And not quite two hundred years later there 
was Alfred, the son of a king and himself to be 
a king. Much was he loved by his father, 
King Ethelwulf and his mother Queen Os- 
burh. From the time that he was a tiny child 
he loved to know things. Yet did his parents 
and nurses allow him to remain untaught in 
reading and writing until he was a big boy. 
But at night time, when the Gleemen sang 
songs to the harp in the royal villa, Alfred lis- 
tened. He had by heart very early some 
splendid old English songs such as Beowulf. 
He knew all about Grendel and all about the 
death of the warrior Beowulf after his battle 
with the dragon.” 

“Do noble boys like dragons?” asked Dicky. 

There was a twinkle in Geoffrey’s eyes. 
“Aye, little one, dragons they love! Alfred 
had listened to gentler songs, like the one of 
the cowherd, Caedmon. He listened to the 
singing of poems which were full of the sea 
and full of war. Saints, warriors and pirates 
were the chief heroes. A Roman poet, think- 


200 


GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


ing of the warriors and pirates, hath called us 
English folk ‘sea wolves.’ ” 

“Ugh!” grunted Dicky, “I’d just love to 
hunt a sea wolf!” 

“Aye, but ye must not think of these people, 
in the midst of whom Alfred was born, as just 
warriors. They loved their homes, and their 
poetry was full of love for their families, and 
for the dear old home place wherever it hap- 
pened to be. Besides home-loving poetry, the 
Gleemen sang many religious poems to which 
the little Alfred listened. Among them was 
the story of Caedmon which I did tell thee. 
We hear, too, of warrior saints, good men who 
did not go out to slay a fire-spewing dragon ly- 
ing on a heap of gold, as did Beowulf, but 
who taught them how to fight the dragon of 
evil which lurks somewhere near or within 
us all the time.” 

Dicky looked puzzled. That was a dragon 
— that dragon of self which he had not thought 
much about. 

“When Christianity came to England, as it 
did in 597 with St. Augustine, almost three 
hundred years before little Alfred was born,” 
went on Master Geoffrey, “it made men care 


A PRIZE 


201 


less for warfare and more for Christ. It is 
difficult to do what Christ told us to do, to 
love one another, and at the same time fight 
one another. And that we should love one an- 
other was the great, new message of Chris- 
tianity.” 

“Has any one ever brought a greater mes- 
sage than Christ?” asked Paul. 

“None as great, my son,” came the quick 
reply. “Alfred knew all about warfare, but 
it was not for warfare that this gentle boy and 
brave man cared most. One day his noble 
mother, Osburh, showed him and his brothers 
a book of poetry written in English. 

“ Whichever of you,’ she said, ‘shall the 
soonest learn this volume shall have it for his 
own.’ 

“This book was a beautiful book, illumi- 
nated bright with gold as well as with other 
colors. Of course any boy would want such 
a wonderful book.” 

“I shouldn’t,” said Douglas rudely. “I 
would rather have my pony!” 

“Please, Master Geoffrey,” spoke up Ferris, 
“I’d like a book like that much better than a 
pony!” 


202 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


Master Geoffrey saw the children were just 
in the mood for an argument, so he went on 
hurriedly. “He said before all his brothers 
who were older than he, Wilt thou really give 
that book to one of us, that is to say to him who 
can first understand and repeat it to thee?’ 

“‘Yea,’ answered his mother, smiling. 

“Alfred thereupon took the book from her 
hand and went to his master to read it. He 
was not slothful but careful, his hands and 
finger nails were clean, making marks care- 
fully in this book. He needed no straw to 
mark that which his memory let slip. Neither 
ate he any fruit and cheese over his open 
book. He kept the book fresh, and it was not 
so very long before he had it all by heart. 
Then one day he brought the book to his 
mother and recited it. And so well did he 
do, that he received the gift as his mother had 
promised him he should. 

“By that time he had grown to be a large 
boy. When he was still a little boy he had 
been taken from his nurses and taught the use 
of arms and how to ride. All his training was 
teaching him how to be a soldier. Yet was 
there something for which Alfred cared even 


A PRIZE 


203 


more. All about them in those days were the 
Danes, the fiercest of fighting men. Govern- 
ment, the gentle religion of Christ, peace, had 
been nigh dislodged by these fierce, heathen 
Danes. Yet in the midst of those war-filled 
years of his boyhood and young manhood, Al- 
fred was dreaming of what English books, of 
what education in their own tongue, might do 
for his people.” 

“Was he a student here?” growled Douglas. 

“Nay, for he dwelt in Wessex. Even in 
war time men were busy then as now in get- 
ting things together that they might live. 
They had to have food, they had to be warm, 
they had to have houses and clothes. In the 
woods they had pigs — wild looking swine with 
tusks. In the fields they had cattle and sheep 
and chickens. From the sea they took fish 
even as they take it yonder at Gold Cliff. 
They made butter and cheese, as thou hast seen 
Dame Williams make it, ale and mead, can- 
dles, leather from skins and they wove cloth 
and silk. They kept bees, too, as thou dost 
know from what happened to little Finan, 
in the story of Caedmon. Besides all these 
things, they had their carpenter’s work, their 


204 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


blacksmiths, their bakers, hunting, wood-cut- 
ting, the making of weapons, and a hundred 
and one other employments.” 

“Is there much difference in the things that 
matter most,” asked Belle thoughtfully, “be- 
tween the past and the present?” 

“Nay, my child, but little. And despite all 
the warfare and the work, Alfred when he 
became king in 871 had time to do much to- 
wards the teaching of the lads and lasses of 
those stirring days. The young king did him- 
self write in English and translate from Latin 
into English so that the people might have 
books in their own tongue. To accomplish 
this work well the good king brought scholars 
from all over the world. Asser, his secretary 
and biographer, has compared Alfred to a 
most productive bee which flew here and there 
asking questions as he went. ’Twas he made 
it possible for every free-born youth to learn 
to read and write English. Aye, this wonder- 
ful king made himself into a schoolmaster and 
took on the direction of a school in his own 
court. Although he freed his people from the 
fierce Danes, through his love for books, he 


A PRIZE 


205 


did more for his own times and for all times, 
— more almost than any other English boy has 
yet grown up to do.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE LITTLE HUTS 

I T was the day following their ride to Caer- 
leon, Master Geoffrey and the children had 
gone down to Gold Cliff to see the salmon 
fishery which had been there since time was, 
and they were to stop at the little hut he had 
promised they might visit. 

On the way down they had seen more than 
ever of the little round huts which they had 
noticed ever since they left Monmouth. 
There were even more of them near Gold 
Cliff than elsewhere, and fewer of the rectan- 
gular cottages. These round huts were a cir- 
cular stone wall, daubed with whitewash and 
clay inside and out, and with only one en- 
trance. 

“They look so white and tidy,” said little 
Janet. 

“Like a doll’s house,” added Mary. 

“They aren’t any bigger than an Esqui- 
mau’s igloo,” said Ferris. 

“Or an Indian’s tepee,” added Douglas. 

206 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


207 


“Igloo, tepee,” muttered Master Geoffrey, 
“pray what may they be? These huts are the 
ancient houses in which the British lived. 
Now do they give way to the little houses 
that be not round but are nearly square.” 

“But excuse me,” said Belle, “from living 
in one of those round huts. They haven’t 
even any windows.” 

“And look at that thatch!” said Douglas. 

“Ugh,” sighed Mary, “think of the fleas!” 

She gazed at a steep conical wooden roof 
thatched with straw which they were pass- 
ing. 

But the next round hut they came to Master 
Geoffrey took them inside. Here the father 
of the family had been at one time a servant 
of his in Monmouth. The woman and two 
girls who were eating just inside the low door- 
way knew him and were pathetic and eager 
in their hospitality. They were seated there 
in a group of three eating on the ground. 
They rose and hurried out to get milk. If 
Geoffrey had been a king, they could not have 
been more eager to do him honor. 

“Gee,” said Douglas, “did you ever hear of 
people eating like that all the time?” 


208 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


‘‘These good folk sit in groups of three and 
so eat in honor of the Trinity,” explained 
Master Geoffrey, “for since olden times, when 
they eat, the Britons have sat on the ground 
thus.” 

Paul found himself thinking that the 
twelfth century was in all conscience old 
enough and wondering what the life was like 
in the second century A. D. 

The children looked around inside the hut. 
There was simply the one room. In the 
centre on some flat stones was the hearth. A 
hole at the top of the conical roof let the 
smoke out. Around this hearth on some bags 
of straw or bracken the family slept. There 
was no furniture of any kind except a chest. 
But there were two household possessions of 
great value to these simple people. 

Belle, who loved music, picked up one: a 
small crude harp with a few strings. The 
other, Douglas was already busily examining. 
It was a sort of wooden book of twenty-four 
square revolving crossbars. These crossbars 
were stained deep blue and red and each side 
was cut deeply with letters and notes which 
shone out white. 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


209 

“What in the world,” exclaimed Douglas, 
“is this crazy old thing?” 

He was spinning the crossbars around by 
rapid blows of his strong short fingers. 

“ ’Tis the peithynen, — the wooden book,” 
explained Master Geoffrey. 

He took it carefully. Seating himself on . 
the chest, he placed the little harp between 
his knees and began to play, revolving the bars 
as he read the music. 

“I didn’t know you could play!” said Belle. 

“It’s such sad music,” said Alice. 

“That’s a sort of music book, isn’t it?” came 
from Paul. 

“Yea, my son, and most precious to these 
poor people is it, for they have little or noth- 
ing else.” 

Master Geoffrey set the harp back gently 
as the woman came in. Blessing the simple 
food they fetched, he bade the children sit 
down to eat. 

The children were wild with excitement, 
for this was the first hut Master Geoffrey had 
let them enter. 

The women handed them wooden platters 
out of which they ate and horns out of which 


2io GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


they drank. And they had oatmeal, honey, 
butter to eat and buttermilk to drink. 

Beyond the little doorway lay the sea and 
Gold Cliff shining; above all the blue sky. 
Around them everywhere trees. Serving 
them moved the women dressed in short wool- 
len tunics, belted in at the waist with a leath- 
ern girdle. One tunic was dyed in spots, the 
other two in stripes. The peasant girls, 
daughters of Master Geoffrey’s servant, were 
lovely looking creatures, with great dark eyes 
and dark hair, braided in two thick plaits, one 
on either side of the face, rich red cheeks, 
slender strong bare legs and beautiful shapely 
bare feet. 

And when, after the lunch, Master Geof- 
frey went outside the hut and proposed that 
all listen to a story while they rested after the 
meal, two of the most eager to be close to 
Master Geoffrey and to hear everything were 
these girls. 

“Now listen well, my children, for I shall 
tell thee a story about a good fisherman and 
his sons, — a fisherman strong and good like the 
father of this family who was my servant once. 
Only this fisherman lived at the mouth of the 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


21 1 


river Thames at a placed called Grimsby to 
this day, instead of here at the mouth of the 
River Usk ” 

“When did he live, — now?” asked Ferris. 

“I cannot tell but it was some time ago. I 
have heard it often sung and told. Written 
down it has not yet been. The story is old 
and was brought to Britain, it may be, when 
the Danes came and conquered.” 

“I know when the Danes first arrived in 
England,” said Ferris, who was proud of his 
history. 

“Dost thou!” exclaimed Master Geoffrey 
with a twinkle in his eye. “Then share thy 
knowledge, young master.” 

“The Danes first arrived in England in 
787,” said Ferris. 

“Very like the story came with them,” went 
on Geoffrey. 

“And was it these Danes King Alfred 
fought?” 

“Aye, little one. Now listen well, my chil- 
dren. There was a king whose name was 
Aethelwold, whose only heir was a tiny little 
girl. And the little girl’s name was Gold- 
borough. Alas, the king found he must die 


2i2 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


and leave his little girl fatherless! So he 
called to him the wisest and mightiest of his 
earls. The name of this earl was Godrich. 
And the King made the Earl promise that he 
would guard his little girl until she was twenty 
years old and that then he would give her in 
marriage to the fairest and strongest man alive. 

“But when the Earl Godrich saw how 
lovely little Goldborough was going to be, and 
knew that he would have to give up the king- 
dom to her before long, he was angry, and 
took her from Winchester to Dover on the 
English sea coast and shut little Goldborough 
up in a castle so that she could not get out.” 

“Like that castle dungeon in Chepstow?” 
asked little Mary. 

“Yea, not unlike that, little one. And in 
Denmark, just about this time there lived a 
king whose name was Birkabeyn who had one 
boy and two sweet little girls. He, too, rea- 
lized that he had to die. So he called to him 
his wisest earl, a man by the name of Godard, 
and charged him to care for his children until 
Havelok, the boy, was old enough to rule the 
land. But this wicked earl shut little Swan- 
borow and Helfled up in a castle and had them 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


213 


'tilled. And Godard was just about to kill 
Havelok, too, when he bethought him he 
would have somebody else do this terrible 
deed. The wicked Earl sent for a fisherman 
who would, he thought, do his will. 

“ ‘Grim,’ said the wicked Earl, ‘to-morrow 
I will make thee rich if thou wilt take this 
child and throw him into the sea to-night.’ 

“Grim took the boy Havelok and bound 
him and gagged him and took him home in a 
black bag.” 

“I don’t think that fisherman was so good if 
he did all that to Havelok,” said Douglas. 

“That would have scared any boy!” ex- 
claimed Dick. 

“When Grim carried the sack into his cot- 
tage, Dame Leve, his wife, was so frightened 
that she dropped the sack her husband had 
handed to her, and cracked poor little Have- 
lok’s head against a stone. 

“They let the boy lie this w&y until mid- 
night when it would be dark enough for Grim 
to drown Havelok in the sea. Leve was just 
bringing Grim some clothes that he might put 
on to go out and drown the King’s son, when 
they saw a light shining about the child. 


214 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“ What is this light?’ cried Dame Leve. 
‘Rise up, Grim.’ 

“In haste did the fisherman rise and they 
went over to the child about whose head shone 
a clear light, from whose mouth came rays 
of light like sunbeams. It was as if many 
candles were burning in that tiny fisherman’s 
hut. They unbound the boy and they saw on 
his right shoulder a king’s mark, bright and 
fair like the lights.” 

Paul found himself in a curious way think- 
ing about the row of candles Aunt Jan had on 
the mantelpiece. 

Then he heard Master Geoffrey continuing: 
“They were overcome by what Godard had 
done and had almost led them to do. They 
fell upon their knees before the little boy and 
promised to feed and clothe him. And so 
they did, and they were very good to him and 
kept him from all harm. But Grim and his 
wife became frightened, for fear that Godard 
would discover that they had not drowned the 
child and would hang them. Thereupon 
Grim sold all that he had, sheep, cow, horse, 
pigs, goat, geese, hens,*— everything, in short, 
that was his. Taking his money, he put his 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


215 


wife, his three little sons and two pretty little 
girls and Havelok into his fishing boat and 
they set sail for England. 

“The north wind blew and drove them 
down upon the coast of England near the river 
Humber and there Grim landed, and the place 
is called Grimsby to this day. Then Grim set 
himself to his old occupation of fishing, and he 
caught sturgeon, whale, turbot, salmon, seal, 
porpoise, mackerel, flounder, plaice and 
thornback. And he and his sons carried the 
fish about in baskets even as fishermen do in 
Caerleon, and sold them. 

“Yet while Grim fed his family well, Have- 
lok lay at home and did nought. And when 
Havelok stopped to think about that, he was 
ashamed, for he was a fine, strong boy. 

“ Work is no shame,’ said the King’s son to 
himself. 

“And the next day he carried to market as 
much fish as four men could. And every bit 
of fish he did sell and brought back the money, 
keeping not a farthing for himself. Alas, 
there came a famine about this time, and 
Grim had great fear on Havelok’s account lest 
the boy starve I 


2 1 6 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“ ‘Havelok,’ said Grim, ‘our meat is long 
since gone. For myself it doth not matter, but 
I fear for thee. Thou knowest how to get to 
Lincoln and there they will give thee a chance 
to earn thy food. Since thou art naked I will 
make thee a coat from my sail.’ 

“This he did, and with the coat on and bare- 
foot the King’s son found his way to Lincoln. 
For two days the lad had no food. On the 
third day he heard some one crying, ‘Bearing- 
men, bearing-men, come here!’ Havelok 
leaped forward to the Earl’s cook and bore the 
food to the castle. Another time he lifted a 
whole cart-load of fish and bore it to the cas- 
tle. 

“The cook looked him over and said, ‘Wilt 
thou work for me? I will feed thee gladly.’ 

“ ‘Feed me,’ answered Havelok, ‘and I will 
make thy fire burn and wash thy dishes.’ ” 

“I guess he was pretty hungry by that time,” 
said Dicky, wishing he had more of the honey 
which they had given him inside the hut. 

“Aye, and because Havelok was a strong lad 
and a good boy, as all King’s sons are not, he 
worked hard from that day forth. He bore 
all the food in and carried all the wood and 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


217 


the water, and worked as hard as if he were a 
beast And he was a merry lad, too, for he 
knew how to hide his griefs. And the old 
story saith that all who saw him loved him, 
for he was meek and strong and fair. But still 
he had nothing but the wretched coat to wear. 
So the cook took pity on him and bought him 
clothes and gave him stockings and shoes. 
And when he had put them on he looked the 
King’s son he was. At the Lincoln games he 
was like a mast, taller and straighter than any 
youth there. In wrestling he overcame every- 
one. Yet he was known for his gentleness. 
Never before had Havelok seen stone putting, 
but when his master told him to try, Havelok 
threw the stone twelve feet beyond what any 
one else could do.” 

“Did they have games then like those we 
saw at Chepstow?” asked Ferris. 

“Aye, lad. And the story of the stone put- 
ting was being told in castle and hall when 
Earl Godrich heard it. He said to himself 
that here was the tallest, strongest and fair- 
est man alive, and he would fulfill his promise 
and get rid of Goldborough, the King’s daugh- 
ter, by giving her to Havelok, whom he 


2 1 8 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


thought to be just a cook’s boy. Now Have- 
lok did not wish to marry any more than did 
Goldborough but they were forced to. And 
when they were married Havelok knew not 
whither they could go, for he saw that God- 
rich hated them and that their lives were not 
safe. 

“Therefore they went on foot to Grimsby 
and royal was their welcome. Grim, the fish- 
erman, had died. 

“But his five children, three sons and two 
daughters even as in this household, fell on 
their knees and said, Welcome, dear Lord! 
Stay here and all is thine.’ 

“And that night as they lay on their bed in 
the fisherman’s hut, Goldborough discovered, 
because of the bright light which came from 
the mouth of Havelok, that he was a King’s 
son. And it was not long after this they all 
set sail for Denmark so that Havelok, with 
the help of Grim’s sons and many others, 
might win back the kingdom of Denmark. 

“It was in the house of Bernard Brown, the 
magistrate of the Danish town, that sixty 
strong thieves, clad in wide sleeves and closed 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


219 


capes, attacked him. Bernard Brown seized 
an axe and leaped to the door to defend his 
home. 

“One of the thieves shouted at him, ‘We 
will go in at this door despite thee.’ 

“And he broke the door asunder with a 
boulder. Whereupon Havelok took the great 
bar from across the door. And with the bar 
he slew several, yet the thieves had wounded 
him in many places, when Grim’s sons came 
upon the scene to defend their lord and saw 
the thieves treating Havelok as a smith does 
his anvil. Like madmen the three sons of 
Grim leaped into the fight, and they fought 
until not one of the thieves was left alive. 

“When Earl Ubbe heard of this he rode 
down to Bernard Brown’s. Then he heard 
the story of Havelok’s bravery and of the ter- 
rible wounds he had received so that Bernard 
Brown feared he might die because of them. 

“ ‘Fetch Havelok quickly,’ commanded 
Ubbe. ‘If he can be healed, I myself will dub 
him knight.’ 

“When a leech saw the wounds of Havelok 
he told Ubbe that they could be cured. 


220 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


“ ‘Come forth now,’ said Ubbe to Havelok, 
‘thou and Goldborough and thy three serv- 
ants.’ ” 

“I guess they were glad they got away from 
those thieves,” said Janet looking about fear- 
fully. 

“Aye, there was great rejoicing. And with 
rejoicing did Ubbe bring them to his city. 
And about the middle of the night Ubbe saw a 
great light in the tower where Havelok was 
sleeping. He peered through a crack and he 
saw that the ‘sunny gleam’ came from Have- 
lok’s mouth. It was as if a hundred and seven 
candles were burning, and on Havelok’s shoul- 
der was a clear, shining cross. 

“ ‘He is Birkabeyn’s heir,’ said Ubbe, ‘for 
never in Denmark was brother so like to 
brother as this fair man is like the dead king.’ 

“And Earl Ubbe and his men fell at Have- 
lok’s feet and awoke him. And very happy 
was Havelok and thankful to God. And then 
came barons and warriors and thanes and 
knights and common men, and all swore fealty 
to Havelok. With a bright sword Ubbe 
dubbed Havelok Knight and made him King. 


THE LITTLE HUTS 


221 


And the three sons of Grim were also made 
Knights. Thereat were all men happy, and 
they wrestled and played, played the harp and 
the pipe, read romances from a wooden book 
and sang old tales. There was every sort of 
sport and plenty of food. 

“Finally they all, a thousand knights and 
five thousand men, set forth that Havelok 
might take vengeance on the wicked Earl 
Godard. There was a hard fight, but at last 
they caught and bound Earl Godard. And he 
was hanged on the gallows and died there. 
Such was the deserved end of one who be- 
trayed his trust. 

“The wicked Earl Godrich in England, 
who had robbed Goldborough of her king- 
dom, heard that Havelok was become King of 
Denmark and also that he was come to 
Grimsby. So he gathered all his army to- 
gether and there was a great battle. And the 
battle was going against Havelok, when the 
wicked hand of Godrich was struck off. 
After that Havelok and his men were victor- 
ious. Then did they condemn the Earl God- 
rich to death. And he was bound to an ass 


222 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


and led through London and burned at the 
stake. Such was the end of another who be- 
trayed his trust. 

“And after that Havelok and Goldborough 
reigned in England for sixty years. So great 
was the love of the King and Queen for each 
other that all marvelled at it. Neither was 
happy away from the other. And never were 
they angry, for their love for each other was 
always new. And so have I heard the old 
tale, which yet no man hath written down, told 
and sung.” 

The children were silent. They were so 
glad that Goldborough and Havelok had 
escaped from their wicked guardians. In the 
quiet they could hear their ponies eating grass 
where they were tethered out behind the little 
hut. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE GENTLE WERE- WOLF 

4 ‘13LEASE,” said Dicky, his eyes very big, 
JL “is a were-wolf the same as a sea-wolf?” 
Paul had a curious sense of being jerked 
about, like the float on a bobbing fish-line, as 
he heard Dicky ask this question. Then he 
pinched himself. Yes, there they all were 
riding through deep forests. But he had the 
strange feeling that they had been at the little 
huts long, long ago ; and that he had not heard 
Master Geoffrey telling the children about the 
salmon fishery at Gold Cliff. Had they really 
been there? Had he told them how the fish 
were taken in long rows of cone-shaped bas- 
kets called putts and fixed between upright 
stakes? Rows of baskets that stretched along 
the shallow shore? How did they get away 
from there? Paul did not know. 

But here they were anyhow — even if it was 
all a dream — riding along through dark for- 
223 


224 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

ests towards Monmouth. Would Eleanor be 
glad to see them? What would Dame Wil- 
liams give them to eat? 

Then Paul heard Master Geoffrey saying 
that a sea-wolf and a were-wolf were very 
different. A sea-wolf came up out of the sea 
and was always a sea-wolf. But a were-wolf 
might take any form or shape. 

As they rested in the deep woods after 
lunch, their horses tethered about them, the 
grooms lying at ease, Master Geoffrey said, “I 
will tell thee a story now about a were-wolf. 
In truth, it is not the tale to tell after darkness 
hath set in. Marie de France, a she-chroni- 
cler like unto thy Aunt, hath of late been col- 
lecting these tales on English soil. And here 
is a tale she tells about a were-wolf which hap- 
pened in the days of King Arthur, and, it may 
be, near that very Caerleon which we are even 
now leaving behind us.” 

Little Janet edged her way nearer Alice, 
and, tucking her hand into hers, said, “A wolf 
is so scarey anyhow and a a^re-wolf sounds 
something awful.” 

“Listen well, my children. In King Ar- 
thur’s day, there lived a man who for part of 


THE GENTLE WERE-WOLF 225 

the week was a wolf, that is, he had the form 
and the appetite of a wolf, and was called a 
were-wolf. But none knew that he was a 
were-wolf for three days in the week. Not 
even his wife, whom he loved well and de- 
votedly, knew what happened to her husband 
while he was away from her those three days 
every week.” 

“It must have been just terrible for the 
wife,” said warm-hearted little Mary. 

“Aye, it vexed the wife very much that she 
did not know but she was afraid to question 
her husband lest he be angry. At last one day 
she did question him. 

“ ‘Ask me no more,’ replied the husband, 
‘for if I answered thee thou wouldst cease to 
love me.’ ” 

“And I suppose,” said Janet, “that would 
have broken his heart.” 

“Aye. Nevertheless she gave him no peace 
until he had told her that three days in the 
week, because of a spell which was over him, 
he was forced to be a were-wolf, and that when 
he felt the change coming over him, he hid 
himself in the very thickest part of the forest. 

“Then the wife demanded to know what be- 


226 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


came of his clothes, and he answered that he 
laid them aside. The wife asked where he 
put them. He begged her not to ask him, for 
only the garments made it possible for him to 
return to human shape again. But the wife 
cried and begged until the knight, her hus- 
band, had told her all. 

“ Wife,’ he said, ‘inside the forest on a 
cross road is a chapel. Near the chapel un- 
der a shrub is a stone. Beneath the stone is a 
hole, and in that hole do I hide my clothes 
until the enchantment makes it possible for me 
to take my human shape again.’ ” 

Even Douglas looked about him, as if that 
poor were-wolf might run past them any mo- 
ment, or his clothes were in hiding near-by. 

“Now the wife was not a good wife. In- 
stead of trying to help her husband to get 
free from the wolf shape he had to assume 
three days in every week, thereafter she 
loathed him and was afraid of him. And 
what is worse still she betrayed him to an- 
other knight.” 

“I think she was a very wicked woman,” 
said Mary, “not to help him in his trouble.” 

“Aye, wicked she was! She took this other 


THE GENTLE WERE-WOLF 227 

knight into her confidence and told him where 
her husband hid his clothes when the spell 
came upon him and he took the form of a 
wolf. Thereupon the knight to whom she 
had told this dreadful secret stole the clothes, 
and they hid them where the poor wolf could 
never find them again.” 

“I don’t think he’s a bad wolf at all,” whis- 
pered Janet to Alice, “and I love him lots bet- 
ter than I do that wicked wife.” 

“After that,” went on Master Geoffrey, 
“these two wicked people were married while 
the poor wolf wandered about the forest griev- 
ing, for he had loved his wife well and truly.” 

“If I had loved that were-wolf,” said Mary, 
“I’d have kept on loving him more and more 
when I found out what awful trouble he was 
in.” 

“Aye, little one, thou hast a warm and true 
heart. That can I see in thy deep eyes. . . . 
Well, some time after this the King went 
a-hunting one day in the forest, and his hounds 
gave chase to a wolf. At last when the 
wretched beast was in danger of being over- 
taken by the hounds, and torn into a thousand 
pieces, he fled to the King, seized him by 


228 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


the stirrup and licked his foot submissively. 

“The King was astonished. He called his 
companions, and they drove off the dogs, for 
the King would not have the wolf harmed. 
But when they started to leave the forest, the 
wolf followed the King and would not be 
driven away. The King was much pleased, 
for he had taken a great liking to the wolf. 
He therefore made a pet of the lonely beast, 
and at night he slept in the King’s own cham- 
ber. All the courtiers came to love the wolf, 
too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one 
any harm.” 

“I don’t suppose,” Paul heard Dicky 
say, “that wolf would get on well with Ar- 
row.” 

“A long time had passed when one day the 
King had occasion to hold a court,” went on 
Master Geoffrey. “His barons came from far 
and near, and among them the knight who had 
betrayed the were-wolf. No sooner did the 
wolf see him than he sprang at him to kill him. 
And had the King not called the wolf off, he 
would have torn the false knight to pieces. 
Every one was astonished that this gentle beast 
should show such rage. But after the court 


THE GENTLE WERE-WOLF 229 

was over and as time went on they forgot the 
beast’s savage act. 

“At length the King decided to make a tour 
throughout his kingdom. And he took the 
wolf with him, for that was his custom. Now 
the were-wolf’s false wife heard that the King 
was to spend some time in the part of the 
country where she lived. So she begged for 
an audience. But no sooner did she enter the 
presence chamber than the wolf sprang at her 
and bit off her nose.” 

“Oh, dear! what a terrible thing to do!” 
cried Mary. 

“Aye, but the beast was a were-wolf and 
constrained by his nature. And the courtiers 
were going to slay the beast, but a wise man 
stayed their weapons. 

“ ‘Sire,’ said the councillor, ‘we have all 
caressed this wolf and he has never done us 
any harm. This lady was the wife of a man 
thou heldst dear, but of whose fate we none of 
us know anything. Take my counsel and 
make this lady answer thy questions, so shall 
we come to know why the wolf sprang at her.’ 

“This was done. The false knight who had 
married her was brought, also, and they told 


230 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


all the wickedness they had done to the poor 
wolf. Then the King caused the wolf’s stolen 
clothes to be fetched. But the wolf acted as if 
he did not see the clothes. 

“ ‘Sire,’ said the councillor, ‘if this beast is 
a were-wolf he will not change back into his 
human shape until he is alone.’ 

“They left him alone in the King’s cham- 
ber, and put the clothes beside him. Then 
they waited for a long time. Lo, when they 
entered the chamber again, there lay the long 
lost Knight in a deep sleep on the King’s bed! 
Quickly did the King run to him and embrace 
him, and after that he restored to him all his 
lost lands, and he banished the false wife and 
her second husband from the country. And 
they who were banished lived in a strange 
land, and all the girls among their children 
and grandchildren were without noses.” 

“I think it was just right they didn’t have 
any noses, after the way that wife acted,” said 
Mary. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


BED TIME 

W ELL, and here they were again in Geof- 
frey’s Window in Monmouth! Paul 
could not tell exactly how they got there. But 
there they were, the sun shining on the leaded 
glass windows, outside the street full of busy 
people going to and fro. 

Master Geoffrey himself was smiling as he 
said, “Some day I will tell thee mine own story 
of King Lear and his three children; stories, 
too, of Julius Caesar and how he came to Brit- 
ain, and tales of King Arthur and all his court. 
Through these little windows do my eyes 
travel out to all the world.” 

Then it was as if the light winked and it 
grew very dark. Master Geoffrey’s voice had 
floated off with the sunshine. From a great 
distance, as if he were waking up or going to 
sleep — Paul did not know which — he could 
hear Master Geoffrey’s voice. 

231 


232 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

“And, my children, if ye are the Green 
Children, then do ye know this story. But if 
ye are not the Green Children, then is the tale 
unknown to thee. ’Tis a marvel, a prodigy, 
and my wit strives in vain to fathom it.” 

“There come those Green Children at last!” 
Paul heard Belle say. 

“One harvest tide,” went on Master Geof- 
frey, “when the harvesters were gathering in 
the corn, there crept out of two wool-pits a 
boy and a girl — ” 

“What in the world is a wool-pit?” asked 
Douglas. 

Master Geoffrey did not answer but went on 
with his story. “These two were green at 
every point of their bodies, and clad in gar- 
ments of strange hue and unknown texture. 
The children wandered distraught about the 
field, until the harvesters took them and 
brought them to the village. Many flocked 
together to see this marvel. For some days 
the children took no food.” 

“Shucks,” Paul heard Douglas say, “and a 
Thanksgiving dinner right under their noses!” 

“At last,” went on Master Geoffrey, “when 
they were almost dead with hunger, and yet 


BED TIME 


233 


had refused every sort of food, it chanced that 
some beans were brought in from the field. 
At these the children caught greedily and 
sought in the pods, weeping bitterly »to find 
them empty. Then did one of the by-standers 
offer them newly-shelled beans. These they 
took gladly and ate forthwith. With this food 
were they nourished till they learned to eat 
bread. At length they lost their — and — be- 
cause — and English speech — ” Master Geof- 
frey’s voice trailed off and was lost. 

Then upon the door came a sudden loud 
knock, for all the world as if something heavy 
had fallen. The door opened and there stood 
Dame Williams, Eleanor in one arm and in 
the other hand a candle held high. 

“Gee, there’s Eleanor!” Paul heard Doug- 
las say. 

And there was Eleanor, rosy and fresh, her 
little eyes like very bright blue buttons, her 
little mouth like the tightest pink apple blos- 
som cup that ever was, her flaxen hair yellow 
as strained honey. Douglas, who was always 
gentle with Eleanor, was playing with her lit- 
tle pink fingers while Dame Williams talked 
to Belle. 


234 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 

Paul heard her say, “I have been fretting 
the roof of her mouth and her gums with one 
finger wetted in honey, to cleanse and comfort 
the little one’s mouth, for her teeth do ache.” 

Then Dame Williams handed Eleanor to 
Belle and came towards him with the candle. 
Paul had the awful feeling that something 
dreadful was going to happen. 

Dame Williams opened her large mouth 
very wide and said, “I have learned my art 
from a fairy who rose from a lake under the 
Black Mountains and I will cure thy tooth- 
ache. This candle is of mutton-fat, mingled 
with seed of sea-holly. I will burn this candle 
as close as possible to the tooth, and the worms 
to escape the heat of the candle will — ” 

But Paul never knew exactly what it was the 
“worms” were going to do, for he heard his 
own voice saying, “Aunt Jan, don’t hold that 
candle right under my nose! You’re burning 
my nose.” 

“Nonsense, dear, the candle is nowhere 
neat your nose.” 

“What I want to know, Aunt Jan,” Paul 
heard himself saying sleepily, “is whether 


BED TIME 


235 

those children were green string beans or 
weren’t?” 

“Goodness gracious me!” said Aunt Jan. 
“What next? They might just as well have 
been Thanksgiving turkeys, and with good 
long legs under them they could get up stairs 
to bed much faster on Thanksgiving night.” 

She kissed him and thrust his candle into his 
hands. “Now march, dear!” 

And each in turn she woke, kissed, and gave 
a candle to. 

“I suppose,” Paul heard Aunt Jan say, “you 
children have dreamed enough dreams in 
these few seconds I let you sleep while I 
lighted your candles, to fill ten books.” 

“What I want to know — ” Paul began 
again. 

“To-morow morning is time enough,” Aunt 
Jan cut him short. “And we’ll go over to the 
dentist then, too, and see about that tooth. 
You’ve been kicking and crying out in your 
sleep as if the tooth were worse.” 

The dentist! That was enough to wake any 
boy. Paul looked back down the wide deep 
old stairway. He saw a long line of sleepy 


236 GEOFFREY’S WINDOW 


children, himself, Douglas, Belle, Alice, 
Mary, Ferris, Dicky, Janet, Eleanor, all stum- 
bling sleepily up the stairway to bed, candle 
in hand. Anyway it had been the jolliest of 
Thanksgiving Days! 


I 


JUL 22 




